


Take the Red Road Home

by Allegria23



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (They apply a lot— it’s smuttier than i planned— I’m sorry/ you’re welcome), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Atmospheric Romance, Emotional Risks, Found and Chosen Family, Frottage, Humanitarianism, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Physical Peril, Okay All Standard Sex Acts Apply, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Personal Risks, Quentin Coldwater is a sub, References to Depression, References to HIV/AIDS, References to Loss of a Spouse (Past), References to Substance Abuse (Past), Secret Love Affairs, Secrets, Service Top Eliot Waugh, Set in Kampala Uganda, Sexual Fast-burn/ Emotional Slower-burn, Single Supernatural Plot-Element, So much kissing, Strangers to Lovers, The Danger of One’s Past, This is a Queer Romance Novel set in Africa just so we’re clear., Vague References to Eliot Waugh’s Canonically Shitty Childhood, historical events, mysterious happenings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 113,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25504093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegria23/pseuds/Allegria23
Summary: Eliot Waugh seemingly has everything he needs— work he believes in, world travel, and most importantly he has Margo, his best friend and his rock. A temporary assignment in Kampala, Uganda, however, may upend Eliot’s world—including his habitually casual love life—when he meets Quentin Coldwater, a soft-spoken, mysterious young doctor to whom he is irrevocably drawn.Quentin Coldwater is guarding a secret, one that separates him from everyone but Ted, his oldest and dearest friend. He’s created a careful life apart, in Kampala, where he can help people in need while staying tucked away from the rest of the world. Quentin isn’t planning on falling in love again, but with Ted’s encouragement he’ll let himself get close to the captivating, unusual Eliot— until a spectre from his past threatens discovery, shattering the safety that he’s so carefully created. Will Quentin’s secret tear them apart?This is a story of two people with complex pasts taking risks, great and small, for a powerful and unexpected love.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 410
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story began as an adaptation of a film, and that film was _Age of Adaline._ What I can recommend about it is that it has attractive leads, the bones of a good story, and Harrison Ford. While _Take the Red Road Home_ does not, regrettably, have Harrison Ford, it does have the sexual fast-burn/ emotional slower-burn structure that I love in a romance, and one of my absolute favorite sci-fi tropes. I've come to love these versions of Eliot and Quentin, and am very excited to share this unconventional love story. 
> 
> A million thanks to my dear friend Adjovi, who introduced me to Kampala. This one is for you.

Eliot Waugh passes through the enormous glass-and-worked-brass doors of the opulent hotel lobby and into the warmer air of the African morning, wincing against the nearly blinding brightness of the sun. It had been very dark when he’d finally arrived here late last night, after two long flights and a long layover in Amsterdam; all he’s seen of Uganda so far is headlights, tail lights, a few street lights, and the inside of this hotel. He slips his fingers into his blazer pocket for his sunglasses, blinking at the sudden heat and light as he moves away from the doors. 

“Do you need a car, sir?” 

A doorman is gesturing toward a roundabout where a line of luxury cars are idling. The deep, cool brown of the man’s skin is typical of the people of Kampala, and contrasts starkly with his bright, white uniform. 

Eliot isn’t exactly _comfortable_ with being called “sir” by hotel staff, as if he was above them by some natural right. The great leveling tenet of his American protestant upbringing—old-timey biblical fundamentalism, not the flashy evangelical variety—well... it still sticks with him, after all these years.

The chorus of one of the old songs flickers through his mind: _there’ll be one congregation, at the great transfiguration; there’ll be no high or lowly, there’ll be no rich or poor..._ He shakes his head at how absurd it feels to remember that, after all this time. It’s not as though Eliot doesn’t believe in education or culture (far from it, honestly, he’s put years of effort into those things;) it’s just that none of it means he’s due the deference of other people. It feels a bit embarrassing, but it’s the man’s job, and moving through social situations with grace is one of Eliot’s more advanced skills. 

He offers the man a gentle smile, and nods. Still squinting, he pulls a small bill from his pocket as the doorman leads him to a Mercedes and holds the door for him as Eliot folds his long legs into the slightly cramped back seat and sets down his attaché. 

“Thank you." Eliot hands the doorman the tip with another polite nod and turns to his new driver. “Please take me to the Mulago Hospital, the administrative office. This is the address.” He passes the note up, and they pull out of the roundabout and onto the private road that circles the hotel. 

The Kampala Serena Hotel is ostentatiously luxurious, with amenities like champagne bars and water gardens. It occupies a secure compound in the city’s central district, and looks like a literal castle, its pink stone walls surrounded by tall palms and fountains. Eliot doesn’t know why CARE chose the place for his first two nights in the city—Margo’s doing, quite possibly. He’ll try to enjoy it—indulging in luxuries where he encounters them has really never been a problem for Eliot Waugh. He grew up without any of that, but one would never know: excellent taste was something he began cultivating as a very young man. This morning, he’s wearing a beautiful silk and linen blend three piece summer-weight suit in a sophisticated neutral tan, his shirt and accessories chosen to be elegant and understated rather than flashy. He’s here to work; the contrast between the overt display of wealth at the hotel and Eliot’s objectives in Kampala is already making him a bit impatient. 

When the car emerges from the gates they are no longer in a lush, manicured African resort, but this is still a very nice part of the city. Tall trees edge the neatly maintained street as they head north, passing several other luxury hotels and restaurants, an embassy, a private hospital. With unease, Eliot notices that everything is gated and surrounded by high fences and walls. Elaborate UN offices and apartments appear on the west side of the road, with a golf course spreading out gently downhill to the east, followed by walled clusters of luxurious-looking homes and the offices of professional firms. 

As the traffic gets thicker, motorcycles begin to swerve around their car, many with two riders. Eliot’s driver, a man who looks to be in his forties, tuts loudly. 

“I’m sorry about these cursed bodas,” he says. His speech has the quick pace and hard consonants of a Ugandan accent, and he sounds good-natured, despite the complaint. 

“Bodas?” Eliot leans forward, to try to have a conversation. “I’m sorry, I’m new here. Do you mean the motorcycles?”

“Ah yes, boda-bodas. Motorcycle taxis. They pollute our air, they follow no laws. Cause accidents, make the roads dangerous...” Another speeds around them, weaving through the cars and vans. No one seems to be wearing any sort of protective gear, which is disconcerting. “You see? They are everywhere!”

They are indeed everywhere. Two large roundabout intersections now behind them, the road has changed and the traffic has thickened. To their right, elegant, manor-like buildings climb a wooded rise behind a line of palm trees; to their left, a patchwork of small shacks made partly of corrugated metal and sheet plastic spreads down into a valley, with what look like multi-story apartments and office buildings on the other side. Eliot sees large piles of bicycles, clotheslines hung with colorful clothing, and lines of smoke curling into the air that must be from cooking fires. People on foot walk among clumps of cars near the road, and a couple of women are carrying large baskets of bananas or plantains on their heads. The contrasts of poverty and wealth in Kampala are striking. Eliot tries not to stare as he takes in the shacks and tents that roll down the valley toward what looks like a very large drainage channel. How many of the city’s people live in this area, and others like it or even worse?

The car has come to a standstill, surrounded by white vans with black taxi markings and assorted cars and work trucks. A boda races around them, jumps the median, and makes a right turn up the hill in front of oncoming traffic. This might be a good time to text Margo. Eliot lifts his phone from his jacket pocket. It’s 10:38 a.m., and he’s relieved to see he has two bars.

**Bambi**

_omw to mulago, safe and sound_

He waits a minute, and little bubbles appear as Margo types.

_love to hear it. enjoy the hotel while you can_

_say hi to the giant garbage birds for me_

_??? should i be worried???_

_don’t pick any fights with them you’ll be fine_

_oh my dear bambi, you give the best advice_

_damn right i do_

_best thing at the hotel?_

_the spa=world class_

_don’t miss it or i’ll kick your ass_

_thanks. love you, ta-ta!_

_love you too, mwah!_

The remainder of the drive to the Mulago hospital complex—about a mile and a half—takes another half hour through slow and chaotic traffic. Eliot is eager to get there, and not only to be out of this car and away from the smoggy road. Present circumstances aside, this really is an excellent assignment, just the sort that he likes. The opportunity to be out in the world, meeting people and learning new places, appeals to a deep part of Eliot’s psyche, the part of him that once hoped and yearned and then _needed_ to leave the narrow confines of his hometown, to go and discover something broader and better in the world. He’ll have three weeks in Kampala to study the workings of the city's oldest and largest public hospital and begin drafting his report, and he can extend that by another week or two if necessary. 

The side road that they’ve pulled onto brings them partway up the hill to the east, through a set of gates and between large buildings of various styles, past parked cars and hospital signs printed in English, black lettering on white announcing _Cancer Center_ and _Uganda Heart Institute._ The road is narrow, unpaved, and everything has a patina of age, but the hospital buildings they pass are edged with gardens, and the people moving among them are colorfully dressed and feel full of life.

When the driver stops at his destination Eliot feels a light buzz of anticipation, ready to get started. He thanks and pays and tips his driver, and arranges a ride back to the hotel in the evening, then takes a moment to take in the square, whitewashed building with concrete stairs before all but jogging up to the front doors, attaché in hand. 

Eliot has been inside the building for around thirty seconds, eyes adjusting to the lower light and scanning a directory of offices, when an officious-looking man in a brown suit bustles toward him from down a corridor. “Mr. Waugh,” the man takes his hand to shake it while smiling under his thick moustache and making a slight bow. “I am Tick Pickwick, Second Director for Administrative Efficiency of the Old and New Mulago Teaching Hospital and Hospital Complex. We are so pleased to have you here with us in Kampala.”

Eliot towers over the administrator—he appears to be around 5’5” to Eliot’s 6’2”—and he makes his own small bow while returning the man’s handshake, following the somewhat odd social cue. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Should I call you Director Pickwick?” 

“Oh yes,” Director Pickwick clasps his hands together in front of himself. “That would be most appropriate. If you’d like to come with me, I’ll show you to our hospital offices—we have a desk for you to use while you’re with us—and to our records rooms, before we begin the first leg of our tour.” Eliot would be hard pressed to pin down Director Pickwick’s country of origin or nationality—Serbian, perhaps? Iranian?—but his English is impeccable, and he’s polite, if perhaps a bit twitchy. 

Eliot is shown to a small desk that has been set aside for him beside a post in a busy room full of filing cabinets and friendly but quiet clerks, whom he meets with polite interest. The room is edged in large, open windows, letting in warm air and light, with wooden floors and bright white walls, potted plants adorning the tops of filing cabinets. A box fan vents one of the windows. He’ll probably be working here a great deal in the coming weeks; this is nice and will do just fine. He’s pointed to a small staff kitchen and set of restrooms before being ushered to the first of several cramped records rooms on the second floor. Floor-to-ceiling shelves in the small space are stuffed with enormous manila folders full of papers. Eliot can see the edges of some x-rays. Filing boxes fill space on the floor.

“You’ll have access to all of our records, of course,” Director Pickwick explains. “One of our clerks can explain the organizational system. This room contains newer patient files. Older files and administrative records are in the other rooms.” Eliot politely asks questions as they go. Hospital records are not, it transpires, computerized, although there is limited wi-fi in this building, so he’ll be able to use his laptop—thank god. After peeking in on three other rooms full of paper records, Pickwick offers Eliot a cup of coffee, (very welcome, actually,) which he ends up carrying along with him as he’s led briskly away on the grand tour.

Eliot is brought to the main building of the Mulago National Referral Hospital, followed by the Mulago Hospital Assessment Center, followed by the enormous Mulago Hospital, behind which is the Ugandan Heart Institute. The buildings of the campus vary widely in age and size, and are connected by lattices of paved and unpaved paths. Dirt roads wind up and around the hill, and Eliot spots patches of land that seem to host gardens of banana plants, as well as flowers and trees. In each branch of the hospital he is introduced to lead doctors and administrators who are expecting him, but the pace of the tour doesn’t allow him to become particularly acquainted with anyone or familiar with any one part of the enormous hospital complex. There will be time for that. 

Director Pickwick is formal and efficient, and Eliot wonders whether he’s always in such a hurry, and decides that he probably is. Eventually, he manages to inquire about lunch, and ends up at the outdoor hospital canteen with another cup of coffee and a wrap recommended by his host: flatbread like a chapati, with beef in a spicy, gingery peanut sauce, pumpkin, and matoke- a local food that seems to be sweet, buttery mashed plantains. It’s delicious.

“We are very eager to show you the next stop on our tour, Mr. Waugh,” Director Pickwick tells Eliot as he tries to finish his lunch. He’s one of the more inscrutable people Eliot’s met recently, bafflingly managing to make most of his statements sound both simpering and condescending and yet, in spite of that, he’s bizarrely… likeable? “As I’m sure you have heard, our new Specialized Maternal and Neonatal Center has recently been completed. We are very proud.” 

Eliot is well aware. The international funding efforts for the much-needed hospital were complex and extensive, and the World Health Organization is eager to hear how it’s being run. It replaces a dilapidated building built in the 1920s that had room for only forty beds, a part of the Old Mulago Hospital. 

He carefully wipes his fingers with his napkin and rises from the tiny metal table where they’re seated under some trees. “I’m very eager to see it.”

#

This touring process is preliminary, of course, but Eliot is charming and keen as he’s shown around the new, modern building and introduced to doctors and administrators alike. There are patients present, and he tries not to make a nuisance of himself or invade anyone’s privacy as he’s shown a recovery area and views the neonatal ICU from a glass window in a corridor.

“And through here,” says Director Pickwick, “we have a very comfortable nursery, for when our new mothers are in need of rest.” He holds a door open for Eliot, who steps quietly into a warm room edged with cradles with low light filtering through patterned curtains. 

There is a young man in the center of the room, pacing softly and singing quietly to a newborn baby, who is tucked in a tiny, sleeping ball with their head and torso and very little hands resting on his chest where he has a few shirt buttons open and his lab coat unbuttoned. He looks like he’s around thirty, and has soft-looking, light brown hair pulled back into a bun and fair skin—surprising for a hospital employee in Kampala—and the way he’s cradling the baby in his large hands and nearly whispering a lullabye is possibly the gentlest thing Eliot’s ever seen. 

Eliot raps softly on the open door, and the man looks up. His warm brown eyes widen in surprise when he sees Eliot, who can’t help but smile. Can’t take his eyes off him, really.

“Who do we have here?” He keeps his voice quiet and warm, and gestures to the baby. 

“Um, this is Miremba." The man breaks eye contact to look down at her, and Eliot feels bizarrely bereft. “She’s about two hours old. Her mother had some complications, but everyone’s all right now. She let me hold her while she naps.” His voice has trailed off into something soft, almost a little hum, but then he looks up and seems to spot Director Pickwick behind Eliot. “Skin to skin contact is best for newborns,” he explains, “it helps regulate their heart rates and breathing. Also, their nervous systems need it to fully develop.” 

Director Pickwick steps forward, attempting to bluster efficiently in sotto voce. “Dr. Coldwater,” he addresses the young man—the young doctor—“this is Mr. Waugh, from CARE International, in _Geneva_ . He’s here to prepare a report on the workings of the Mulago Hospitals for the _World Health Organization_.”

The doctor is giving Eliot a subtle but searching look, and Eliot wonders what he’s looking for, what he sees.

“It’s mostly technical information,” he assures him, holding his gaze. "They really just want to know where help is still needed, so they can try to provide it.” He inclines his head with a small smile. “I’ll do my best not to get in the way.” 

The doctor smiles shyly at that, and from another planet Eliot hears Pickwick say “Dr. Coldwater is one of our most gifted physicians at the Mulago Hospital Complex, we are fortunate indeed to have the benefit of his expertise.” He watches this… lovely, honestly, really lovely man… wrap his left hand carefully and fully around the back and bottom of the newborn he’s holding and cup her to his chest, then reach his right hand out to shake Eliot’s.

“Quentin,” he says, his voice soft and his gaze open, “please call me Quentin.” 

“Hi,” Eliot returns, “I’m Eliot.”

He’s still holding his hand. It’s strong and very warm. Time seems to have slowed down, but then a small noise from the director breaks Eliot out of the trance he’s in. 

“Are you on the regular staff here at the women’s hospital?” he asks, taking his hand back like a normal person.

“No.” Quentin moves toward a changing table and begins gently changing Miremba. ”I work in several different areas, where I’m needed. My official title is ‘Consulting Physician.’” 

“Is that unusual?” Eliot follows him.

“It is a bit, yes.” Quentin cleans his hands with a baby wipe and produces a large, colorful square of African-patterned flannel from somewhere and begins to deftly swaddle the baby, who is gazing up at him peacefully. “But luckily, they let me get away with it.” 

Quentin’s shirt is still unbuttoned. He seems to be unaware of it. He quirks a little smile and seeks out the director, still beside the door. “Tick, could I ask you for a favor, please?”

“Of course,” says Director Pickwick, with another of his odd little bows.

“Would you go find one of the neonatal nurses to take over with Miremba and return her to her mother? I’m going to be needed shortly over in the pediatric AIDS unit.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Strangely, Eliot doesn’t hear any of the tension in Pickwick’s voice that he’s gotten used to. The man disappears down the hall, and he’s left alone with Quentin and the baby.

Quentin cradles Miremba, now fully swaddled, in the crook of his arm as he steps out from behind the changing table and slightly toward Eliot, looking up at him. He’s small, in a way that Eliot likes. His eyes are so pretty.

“How long are you going to be here with us?” he asks.

“Three weeks, at least,” Eliot lets himself smile at him. “It may be more, depending on how the research goes. This place is complex. It seems like it may surprise me.” 

“Maybe it will.” Quentin’s eyes flash with mischief and he grins. Oh, he has dimples. Wow those are… “I could help you learn the lay of the land, if you like. There’s a lot here that isn’t on the maps.”

Are they flirting now? It definitely feels like they might be flirting now, but Eliot will take him up on that offer whether it was literal or not. 

“How will I know where to find you? If you work all over?”

“Oh, um…” Quentin seems to think about that for a moment. “Tick has my contact information, and a rough outline of my schedule. You can get those from him and, you know, when you’re done with the official tours…” he looks up at Eliot, all warm, intense eye contact, “be sure to get in touch.” 

Eliot feels that he may actually _blush,_ which is honestly so far from how things normally go for him in the course of flirting with cute guys, but he’s rescued? foiled? by Director Pickwick’s return. He’s accompanied by a kind-looking, heavyset Ugandan nurse in a crisp, bright white uniform. Quentin steps away from him and toward her with the baby, and Eliot realizes that he’s been holding his breath.

“Agnes,” Quentin addresses her with a calm, grateful-sounding professional voice, “Miremba will be ready for a feeding in about fifteen minutes. Please return her to Ms. Mbabazi and gently wake her if she’s still sleeping, then stay in case they need assistance with nursing.” 

“All right Doctor,” Agnes replies, and Quentin squeezes Miremba gently to his chest and whispers a tiny thank-you to her before transferring her to the nurse’s arms. Eliot has never seen a doctor be so… so sweet, before. 

Eliot can’t just drift toward Quentin, as much as he’d like to, now that Director Pickwick has returned. “It’s been very nice to meet you, Quentin,” he tells him with a small smile. He looks down slowly and then back up at him, “I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure.” Quentin nods, but the corners of his mouth quirk up. Then he addresses the director:

“Are you two headed in my direction?”

“Sadly, no,” says Pickwick, “We won’t be visiting Infectious Diseases until tomorrow, I’m afraid.” He’s wringing his hands nervously, clearly ready to be on their way.

“All right. Thank you, Tick, for your help and for bringing our visitor by.” Quentin steps toward Eliot to shake his hand again. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Eliot.” His eyes definitely flit across Eliot’s lips before he smiles, gently flushed, and then disappears from the room and down the corridor. 

What has... what has just happened? Eliot tries to get his head clear as he follows Director Pickwick to the College of Health Sciences across the street. He is thirty-four years old, and is experienced with flirting, thank you. He’s a very long way from rural Indiana, and has had plenty of one night stands, plenty of lovers, and a couple of boyfriends in his life. How can meeting one lovely, soft-spoken young man have made him feel like such a… schoolboy? He shakes his head to try to clear the memory of Quentin’s eyes. He has work to do, with two more medical centers to tour this afternoon alone. Tomorrow he’ll be moving to more long-term lodgings, and continuing with the official tours and introductions before he’s able to really get down to work. Thinking about Quentin Coldwater will have to wait—Eliot takes a deep breath of sun-warmed African air—at least a few more hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that occurs to Eliot when he leaves the hotel can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5z3u1v2IdU&list=OLAK5uy_ndSMDXytWFIOrUF1q48YWwP4KWadwX_g0&index=12
> 
> This story began as part of the MHEA challenge, but then the world happened and I couldn't finish it in time, so my artist-collaborator and I are taking our show on the road and publishing it as a work in progress. Writing is continuing apace, and beginning in chapter 3 there will be art! I would like to thank the organizers of the challenge for getting me started, for the inspiration and motivation, and for being so cool about everything.
> 
> Next week's chapter will be from Quentin's point of view. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

The early evening is beginning to cool down, the autumn sun sinking but nowhere near its final plunge toward the horizon, when Quentin leaves the hospital after work and walks the mile and a half along Upper Mulago Hill Road to the home he’s kept for the past three years. The road, like many roads here, is a single lane of hard-packed red earth. It winds its way up the high wooded hill overlooking the hospital district, amid small buildings tucked among palm and umbrella trees and past a water tower, looking down into the city. His house is small and made of red brick, with wood-framed windows and a garden off to the side, and is set off a narrow dirt path a good way back from the road. He has some privacy, here, and a tiny bit of space around him, and his neighbors are kind and fairly respectful of his unusual desire to keep mostly to himself. 

Quentin is _mzungu_ here in Kampala, a light-skinned foreigner. It sets him apart, attracts attention even when he doesn’t want it, but by now the people among whom he lives have accepted him and mostly let him go about his life. He climbs the steps to his front door and lets himself in, hangs his jacket beside the door, and opens the windows to let in the light and evening breeze. 

Quentin lights the stove in his little back-corner kitchen and sets the kettle on to boil. He smiles softly to himself; he’s made it home before six. Turning on his stereo, he sets the receiver to the university music station for the twice-weekly broadcast of a symphony. He’s been looking forward to this one: Rachmaninoff, one of his favorite modern-era composers, and arguably the most romantic. As the announcer introduces the performance, Quentin slides a 90-minute cassette tape into the stereo and sets it to record. His record collection is mostly back in Baltimore, but this has turned out to be a pretty good way to collect music in Kampala.

As he listens to the symphony,[ no.2 in E-minor, ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBy_ACHvEJs) Quentin washes his hands and makes a cup of tea, and begins to put together his supper. 

Today had begun as a fairly ordinary day, with morning work in the neonatal unit, and a healthy baby delivered around noon. The mother and her baby were well. She was nursing successfully, and Quentin got to hold the little one for a bit while she napped, which was lovely. The strange part of his day, that had thrown him a little, had been meeting Eliot Waugh.

Quentin thinks about him as he sautées onions and peppers, and tosses in a handful of peanuts. Eliot had been so very _tall._ He had a striking and unusual beauty, as well, with dark hair that framed his face in loose curls and contrasted with his fair skin; light hazel eyes that shone green-gold in the sunlight from the window; a high, prominent nose balancing his long face; and a deeply cleft chin… it’s hard to stop thinking about just what the man had _looked like._ He was also unusual in the way he was impeccably put together: so carefully dressed and groomed, but he didn’t give off an air of vanity or arrogance. On the contrary, Quentin had found him soft-spoken and respectful, even a little charming. Thinking back on their interaction, (while spooning cold brown rice from the ice box into the hot pan,) Quentin wonders if he’d read him wrong. He had been flirting, hadn’t he? Just a little bit?

He smiles wistfully, remembering how Eliot had looked at him, as he cracks an egg into the pan, stirs in a little chile paste, tears up a handful of tender greens and drops them in. A couple of minutes later the music swells with a vivid, dramatic theme as Quentin takes his dinner, in an earthenware bowl, and sits on his front steps, door propped open, to watch the fat, buttery sun sink below the distant hills.

A few hours later, Quentin has cleaned up from dinner and spent some time reading, curled up in his sweater with a cup of tea. He loves fantasy stories, and science fiction, and has been reading his way through the later works of LeGuin. He retrieves his little notebook computer out of the bedroom, turns it on and checks its connection while settling down on the sofa that faces the windows and door of his front room. It’s more of a loveseat, really—tweedy and olive, sharing the small space with his reading chair, a rug and a coffee table and a lamp, and a couple of short shelves that hold music and books, as well as his stereo. No television, and he doesn’t miss it—the computer is fine for streaming a movie once in a while. He sets it on his leg, ankle crossed over his knee, and signs into Skype. 

At ten p.m. the call he’s been waiting for comes through: there is Ted, with a cup of coffee and the Times’ crossword puzzle at their kitchen table in Baltimore, where it’s three o-clock in the afternoon. The warm light from the window reflects off his glasses and brightens his silver hair. Ted is seventy-nine. He’s sharp, he’s tenacious; he’s Quentin’s family and his favorite person in the world.

“Hey, kid,” Quentin says, cracking a soft smile. “How’ve you been?”

“Not bad,” Ted smiles behind his coffee cup, and looks at the puzzle, “had a nice date with Inez, from the co-op. She wore me right out.” He looks up from under the rims of his glasses with a familiar twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh my god,” Quentin says softly, and he covers his eyes with his hand and shakes his head while Ted laughs at him, “please spare me the details of your conquests.”

“Hey, I resent that,” Ted says around a smirk. “Not a conquest. She’s a nice lady. We’ll probably do it again.”

“Oh my god.”

Ted laughs, throaty and rich. “Hey, don’t you think you could stand to get out and meet someone once in a while? It’s been a long time.” Quentin has heard this before. He rolls his eyes as Ted continues: “How ‘bout a little human connection, huh? Works wonders, as you can plainly see.” Ted gestures broadly to himself, grinning into the camera and wiggling his caterpillar-like eyebrows.

Quentin can’t help but smile back at his ridiculousness. “I’ll have you know,” he says, “I held a newborn baby on my chest for over an hour this afternoon. That was a very high-quality human connection.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s hard to argue with babies…”

“Impossible.” Quentin tries not to smile, for the sake of the argument. “ _And_ I had hot chiles for dinner, listened to an entire symphony, and watched the sun set. I have so much serotonin I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Can’t claim to be an expert in the area, as you know,” Ted begins, and Quentin knows very well that he’s being set up, “but I’m pretty sure a handsome paramour could show you _what to do with it_.”

“Oh dear lord.” Quentin’s certainly blushing this time, he can feel it, and he tries very hard not to crack up. “Ted, that’s… um. That’s so not appropriate!” 

“Hey, I’ve been a free spirit a lot longer than you have. You should take my advice.”

“Ted,” Quentin shakes his head, “did I mention I’m in _Uganda?”_

“Okay, okay,” Ted continues dramatically, as though he’s making a great concession, “suit yourself.”

“Thank you,” Quentin says, “I will. Now, what’s got you stumped in the puzzle?”

Quentin is not much help with the pop culture questions in the crosswords, but Ted has friends he can ask for help with those, and between the two of them they’re pretty good with most of the general knowledge stuff. The Monday puzzles are the easiest, anyway, and in about ten minutes they’ve covered the tricky spots and are getting ready to say goodnight. 

“All right,” Quentin tells him, “I’m going to bed. Enjoy your evening, eat something healthy, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, if you say so,” Ted teases. “Glad you got to hold that baby, that sounds nice.”

He’s such a sweetheart, under it all. “Thanks. Yeah, it was. Listen, I’ll talk to you tomorrow at our regular time, but Wednesday I might be later. The party for the hospital renovation project is that night, I don’t know how late it will go.” 

“Okay, gotcha. You can just call me when you get back.”

“All right. Love you, Ted.”

“Love you too, Pops,” Ted takes a sip of his coffee, “sweet dreams.” 

Quentin signs off and shuts down the notebook. He turns off the lamp and grabs his book as he heads back to get ready for bed. Putting things in their places in the small writing desk that doubles as his nightstand, Quentin gives himself a minute to just sit with the faded black and white photograph that he keeps in his top drawer. It’s best not to dwell in the past, he knows, or too deeply revisit old grief. 

When he’s ready for bed, Quentin tucks the photograph of his late wife away. Arielle wanted him to live, and that’s what he’s doing. He climbs into his bed, between the soft sheets and under a bedspread of colorful African cotton. If he dreams of her… well, he would never deny himself that happiness.

* * *

_i.The messenger might have been mistaken about the battle having reached its end. Quentin could hear faint shouts as he made his way on foot up the steep and winding steps to the monastery. The ambulance driver would wait for them at the bottom of the hill; he and the other medic were supposed to bring down any surviving wounded soldiers. Quentin’s heart pounded in his ears as he made his way through the narrow side gate._

_He and his fellow volunteer medics, and the ambulance corps, had preceded the American military forces into the war by three years. Quentin wasn’t a soldier: he was a young doctor, a graduate of Temple medical school whose decision to go tend to the war wounded had been a source of mixed pain and pride to his Quaker parents, who had given him the name “Quentin Makepeace Coldwater” in all solemnity. It was a French battalion that they were backing up, in the pitched and feverish campaign to defend the Nord-Pas de Calais from the invading German forces, and the Mont des cats Abbey had been under attack since the dawn, most of the monks now long fled._

_The source of the shouting remained a mystery as Quentin and his colleague split up and crept through the darkened stone rooms, searching for survivors. A distant popping noise made him jump— Christ, he wasn’t even wearing a pith helmet. He only found the bodies of fallen soldiers, until he made his way into the sacristy, behind the altar._

_In a corner of the dim room a monk knelt, praying, over an injured soldier. As Quentin stooped to examine the man, he was met with feverish relief from the monk and an urgent set of instructions. A small golden box was pressed into his jacket pocket; the abbot refused to leave the monastery and Quentin must swear— he did swear— to return the object to the Grand Abbot in_ _Cîteaux._

_As he was splinting the soldier’s broken arm, the abbot continuing to pray, the door to the room was thrown open with a bang and a German officer burst into the room, holding a sword. The enemy charged at the abbot, and Quentin, although he was unarmed, ran straight at him, lowering his head and tackling the man around his middle, knocking him to the ground. He felt a sharp pain in his side and barely realized that he had been stabbed by the man’s free hand when he heard a shot from behind and the officer’s sword clattered on the stone floor, his body going limp._

_“Hurry,” said the abbot, still holding a small pistol, “this abbey will be lost. Go and take the relics to_ _Cîteaux._ _You must swear it!”_

_“I swear!” Quentin agreed, as the abbot pulled him up. He could still walk, and he hurried to hoist the injured soldier over his shoulder. “Come with us,” he entreated, but the abbot refused. Quickly, half-dragging the injured man, Quentin made his way down the stone path that descended the hill to the ambulance where the other medic was waiting, and they sped away in the darkness through the French countryside._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks also go to Ilexa, for absolutely outstanding cheerleading and moral support. Thank you so much for your help and for believing in my writing whether or not I happen to! The fandom, and I, are lucky to have you. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A minor content warning: in this chapter there is a brief discussion of the general homophobia that is prevalent in Uganda, where "homosexual acts" are illegal. This affects the characters in that it will shape the decisions they make, requiring them to be careful, but please be reassured that I will not be putting them through any traumatic homophobic events, nor will there be any graphic discussions of harm.

Eliot did not bring a tux to Kampala, but this is probably not a black tie party. He hopes it isn’t, anyway. The event is in honor of the opening of the Mulago Specialized Women and Neonatal Hospital, and Director Pickwick had been very eager that he attend. He slips into his darkest three-piece suit, in a deep charcoal wool, and an ivory shirt, and carefully ties his matching silk tie with practiced fingers—this will have to do. Unfortunately, being a tall white guy, he’ll stand out no matter what he wears. 

Eliot normally enjoys entertaining, but this party isn’t his social element; his work will be easier if it’s done quietly, and he really doesn’t want to be introduced as any sort of VIP or have extra attention drawn to him. When he had expressed this to Director Pickwick this morning, he’d been met with a somewhat pained expression and an “of course, if that is what you wish.”

It’s an after dinner affair, which suits Eliot very well. The little bathroom in his new accommodations is somewhat lacking in light, but he manages a fresh shave and carefully arranges his curls before ducking under the low lintel and locking his door with a key. Eliot leaves the Mulago Hospital Guest House on foot, making his way past the other little golden-yellow cottages with white metal shutters. The night is warm and nearly dark as he heads down the sloping dirt road between the stands of palm trees toward the main medical school. 

It’s a bit surprising that the school has a ballroom, but it does. This is an older building, and the room has a bygone-era feeling to it—nineteen thirties, maybe—with wooden mouldings and heavy draperies framing tall windows. He’s able to get a not-too-sweet cocktail, thankfully, some kind of local spirit with soda, and is seated near the front with Director Pickwick and several other administrators from the hospital and college for the speeches-and-applause portion of the evening. He listens politely and nods and claps appropriately throughout the proceedings, hoping to slip away afterward before he’s introduced to too many people. 

Eliot’s standing at the bar in the back an hour later, having recently escaped a government official, when he’s delighted to see Dr. Quentin Coldwater at a table across the room. He looks beautiful in a very nice deep brown suit with a white bow tie that has already been untied at his collar. His hair is back, his cheeks appear a bit flushed in the warm lamplight, and he’s laughing with his companion, an elegant looking woman in her forties in a stunning off-the-shoulder emerald velvet gown.

“Actually, make that three, please,” Eliot says to the bartender, as he watches the pair. The woman sets her hand on Quentin’s arm and leans in to say something in his ear. They look close and very familiar, like they might be a couple. Eliot didn’t… _misjudge_ their exchange two days ago, did he? Surely not. The flirtation had been subtle, perhaps enough to be unnoticed by a preoccupied outsider, but his chemistry with Quentin had been so palpable that the memory of it _still_ makes Eliot feel warm. He gathers the three tumblers in his long fingers, and as he turns back toward them Quentin looks up at Eliot and their eyes meet. 

For a moment he’s stunned, they both seem to be stunned, just _looking,_ but then Quentin breaks into a smile and Eliot, elated, grins at him in return. He lifts the glasses to show him before he gracefully winds his way between tables and other guests and behind chairs until he’s reached their table. 

“Quentin,” he sets the drinks in the middle of the table and takes one, smiling at Quentin all the while, ”I am dying to be introduced to your stunning companion.”

“Jane Chatwin,” she says, offering her hand to shake, which Eliot does. She has a lovely smile, but she’s looking… in his direction but not _at_ him. Eliot glances at Quentin, who nods slightly in Ms. Chatwin’s direction.

“Jane, this is Eliot Waugh,” he says, moving her hand until it bumps one of the glasses, “he seems to have brought us drinks.”

Realization dawns quickly: Ms. Chatwin is blind. “Only if you want them,” Eliot assures her. “Whiskey of unknown provenance, soda, and lime.”

“What would life be without a little risk?” she asks, smiling as she takes a sip. She has a very handsome British accent that pairs perfectly with her gracefully piled auburn hair and drop earrings. Eliot likes her already. She leans in toward Quentin and stage whispers to him, “Quentin, he certainly _sounds_ handsome.” Quentin smiles at himself and rolls his eyes, and Eliot thinks that maybe he _loves_ Jane already. 

Eliot is absolutely grinning when Quentin says, “Eliot, Jane and I are old friends.”

“Dreadfully old, I’m afraid,” Jane interjects.

“She works with the Institute for the Blind, and we’re conspiring to import British children’s literature in Braille for her students.”

“Would you care to join us?”

Eliot looks at Quentin, who grins and nods toward a chair. “That does sound like a worthwhile conspiracy,” he says as he takes the seat. “Count me in.”

They pass the next half hour or so joking and discussing the merits of various children's fantasy series, many of which, he learns, are in fact quite problematic by today’s standards. It’s nice, just sitting with Quentin and his friend, listening as he talks about this subject that he cares about. He’s animated, gesturing with his hands while he talks, and he seems to think more quickly than he can form sentences, his thick eyebrows furrowing as he organizes his ideas. He has an openness to him that Eliot finds captivating, and he takes a certain amount of wry teasing from Jane with good grace. 

Finally, Jane announces that she should be going soon, and Quentin helps her order an Uber. They both accompany her out to the front of the building to wait for it to arrive, which it does impressively soon. Jane has had Quentin’s arm, and she turns to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Thank you for helping with my makeup, darling,” she says to him, then turns to Eliot with a grin. “I normally look far more a hag than all this.”

“Nonsense,” says Quentin, “you’re always beautiful. But it was my pleasure. Good night, Jane.”

“Good night, my friend. Eliot,” she reaches out a hand and Eliot takes it, she gives his hand a little squeeze, “it’s been a delight.”

“Likewise,” Eliot assures her. “Good night.” Jane settles, ladylike, into the car and closes the door, and she’s gone.

#

They watch Jane’s car disappear around a corner and Eliot feels oddly nervous, now that they’re alone. This all feels unaccountably different from Eliot’s normal experiences of meeting men, and he doesn’t know whether it’s Africa—the heat and the heavy scent of the air and the brevity of his stay giving everything a time-out-of-time quality—or whether it’s something about Quentin himself. 

He looks down at the road in front of them and then up at Quentin. “I was hoping I’d see you here.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I only just learned about the party, while I was moving. But yes.”

A soft little almost-smile appears on Quentin’s lips, and he looks off into the distance. It’s dark now, although the night is still warm, the scent of night-blooming jasmine permeating the air. 

“Tick sprung it on you, did he?”

“Mm-hmm. Somehow, over the last two days in his constant company, it never came up.”

Quentin laughs a little and rolls his eyes at this, as though it’s typical. “Where did you move to?” They turn and climb the steps back to the building, where Eliot’s left his jacket on his chair. 

“The hospital guest house. I got one of the little older freestanding cottages.” When they reach the ballroom, guests are still everywhere, and the bar is still open. Eliot turns to Quentin with a smile, “Can I get you another drink?”

Quentin looks at him for a moment and seems to be making up his mind. “Sure, but let’s take them out of here. I know the back way up to the roof?”

They pick up their drinks and Eliot’s suit jacket, and Eliot follows Quentin, who is leading with a certain air of calm authority that he quite likes, out of the room and into a corridor, where they follow a labyrinthine path around the building to a set of emergency exit stairs. 

“Come on,” says Quentin, “the view is worth it.” With a very cute grin he’s headed up the stairs. Eliot can’t help but smile and shake his head at his own eagerness as he follows him up. 

When they come out on the roof of the five story academic building Eliot can see a wide, star-filled sky and a bright waxing moon. The sparse lights of the hill rise up to the northeast and tall hospital towers bisect the horizon to the west, but there is still a sense of the endlessness of the land and the sky. He steps toward the stone wall that surrounds the roof at about chest height and sets down his drink, curls his fingers over the edge. He feels Quentin step up beside him. 

“This is something I’ve always loved,” Eliot says, gazing at the stars where they meet the horizon. “Vastness.” 

Quentin’s voice is soft and interested when he asks, “Is it the freedom of it that you love?”

Eliot nods, “and the possibility.” 

Quentin hums like he agrees and turns toward Eliot, leaning sideways on the wall. Eliot takes two sips of his drink before he pivots to face him, working up his courage.

He doesn’t know how to say this, what exactly to ask. The stakes feel higher with this man, somehow, but also his attraction to Quentin feels inevitable, palpable in a way that is pulling him forward into a sort of startling honesty. Normally, this would be a time for flirtatious banter, the kind that obscures as much as it reveals. Maybe it’s Quentin’s open gaze, but it feels like the usual rules don’t apply.

“I know we’ve only just met,” he tells him, catching his eyes, “but I’d really like to know you better. Could we... would you like to go out with me?”

Quentin smiles. He glances down at the drink in his hand then looks back up at Eliot, lovely brown eyes making full contact.

“I really would,” he says, “but, there are considerations.”

“Tell me?” Eliot keeps his voice calm, but he urgently needs to know what could be wrong, to try to fix it, to know that it can be fixed. “Part of it must be Uganda?” 

“Yes.” Quentin sets his drink on the wall and then he reaches out and takes Eliot’s hand. His fingers are warm and strong and smooth. Eliot feels both more excited and more grounded.

“Mostly, it’s Uganda,” Quentin continues. “Being queer here is dangerous, it’s… it’s serious-jail-time dangerous. I um… I never expected to end up back in the closet. I’d been out for so long. But.” Quentin looks down and his mouth twists unhappily, and he’s clearly trying to find the words, or the resolve to say them. Finally he looks Eliot in the eye. 

“I haven’t dated anyone since I’ve been here, for just over three years. I’m not inexperienced, but I _am_ nervous. And if I so much as drew suspicion…" He pauses, frowning, then meets Eliot's eyes again. "I hate this, I really do. But if I was suspected to be a queer man, as a mzungu, I would lose all of my patients, probably my job. And I… I don’t want to put you in danger, either.”

“Is it too suspicious for us to be talking up here on the roof together, with our drinks?” 

“Weirdly, no?” Quentin laces their fingers together, which feels like a very good sign. He looks out over the city as he continues. “There’s this um, kind of, odd assumption that all white people know each other, and are friends? I know that sounds, just, so racist... but it’s just how it is. And also, the, um, _social rules_ for men’s friendships are different here than they are in, like, the U.S.. Men don’t have to sit five feet apart to assure the world they’re just ‘bros,’ you know?”

Eliot can’t help it, he’s smiling a big, silly smile that cracks into laughter. “Quentin Coldwater,” he says, gathering his breath, “I very, very much want to subtly, carefully, with utmost caution and seriousness secretly date you, but I don’t think there’s a country in the world, here or anywhere else, where I will ever pass as a ‘bro.’”

Quentin laughs and squeezes his hand. “No, no, I can see that.” He has a lovely laugh, and is still grinning when he leans his shoulder slightly against Eliot’s. “Lucky for me, though.”

Eliot’s stomach swoops a little. “Okay, so… yes?” He stills and looks at Quentin as they lean on the wall, their hands still joined behind it.

“Yeah, okay,” Quentin replies, into the night. His voice sounds quiet and thoughtful, and it hits Eliot that this is a big deal for Quentin. He feels… kind of honored.

“I mean it about being careful,” he tells him, “maybe you can help me with the social cues? I don’t want to put you at risk. But I do, um…” he catches Quentin’s eyes, dark in the moonlight and intent, “I do really like you.”

Quentin smiles at him, and Eliot feels slightly unmoored by his own sincerity— he might even have made himself blush a little with that admission, but it’s good... it feels good. He wishes he could reach out for Quentin, pull him in. 

“I like you too,” Quentin says quietly, a little shy. He looks down, then, and turns toward the city again, all of the lights spread out unevenly below them. Eliot can hear the sounds of clicking insects in nearby trees, and a motorcycle driving away in the distance. 

“So um,” Quentin softly breaks the near-silence, “I should share some things with you, okay? Since we’re kind of alone now, and I think this would be a good time?”

“Of course.” Quentin is gently rubbing the fingertips of his free hand over the worn grey stone of the wall, looking down at the sparse lights of the campus at night. Eliot doesn’t know what to expect, here, but he’s willing to wait all night.

“I was married,” Quentin quietly tells him, speaking into the darkness, “before, when I was really young. My wife passed away.”

“I’m sorry.” Eliot takes in this surprise, lets it just sort of rest in his mind while he listens.

“Thank you,” Quentin continues, a note of sadness in his voice. “It was a long time ago. I loved her, so much. I wanted you to know because… being a widower just, it informs a lot of who I am. It’ll always be there, even though I’m not in mourning any more.”

Eliot nods, absorbing this. “Do you have children?”

Quentin hums, a sad, short sound, and shakes his head. Eliot waits while he seems to search for the distant horizon.

When he looks up at Eliot again, Quentin says, “I’m bisexual, but I’ve mainly preferred to be with men, since Arielle. It’s just... I know myself, and I’m happy this way.”

Eliot nods, taking it all in, letting it settle with him. Quentin does seem to know himself well. He has… he has a gentleness to him that Eliot finds so compelling. Eliot has the urge to put his arm protectively around Quentin’s shoulders, but he knows they could be seen from the hospital towers. He adjusts the shape of his hand, instead, to wrap around his fingers. 

“What about you?” Quentin asks, “what do you want me to know?”

Eliot wonders, briefly, how much it would really be appropriate to open up here, on this rooftop, on this… is this a date, now? It’s definitely an opportunity. He looks at Quentin, who is listening and looking at him with this softness and genuine interest, and he feels… unaccountably safe.

“Well,” he begins, “I have a best friend. _Margo_. She’s... well, she's very fabulous. And also the strongest person I know. Margo’s been a big part of my life since, um, since college... and I live with her some of the year, in Geneva. When I, well...” 

He hesitates. Eliot doesn’t usually share a lot about his earlier life with people he dates. He mostly dates casually, anyway, and things rarely get to a place where he would want to be very vulnerable. But here they are, and he may only know Quentin for… a month? And yet, he finds that he _wants_ this man to know who he is. He wants him to like him for his true self.

“So,” he continues, taking a deep breath and gripping the rough edge of the stone wall, “My upbringing, being a queer kid, it wasn’t anything you could call “good.” It was, just, the most humorlessly religious farm life, and um… it was pretty mean. I don’t have relationships with my family any more which... really, super-mutual decision.”

“I’m so sorry, Eliot.” Quentin looks sad and possibly a little belligerent on his behalf, which is adorable and very sweet, but Eliot hurries to reassure him. 

“I’m okay now, it was a long time and absolutely heaps of therapy ago. The point was, though, when I got out of there, I was vulnerable, and I ended up in a relationship with an abusive guy. Margo was the person who helped me get out of that, and she cleaned me up from the drug problem I’d developed, too. I was about, nineteen, at the time?”

He pauses to look at Quentin, to check in with him—he’s listening very closely, and he squeezes Eliot’s hand in sympathy. Eliot takes a deep breath, and looks back toward the sky.

“So for like, fifteen years, Margo’s been my constant. We’re not a couple—I’m gay, but it wouldn’t be like that in any case—but we are kind of a package, even though we’re usually apart. It’s shaped who I am, being her friend. I don’t know who I’d be now or if I’d even be alive without her.”

Eliot can hardly believe he’s just said all of that. This might be the weirdest first-date-like-experience he’s ever had. The stars are twinkling above them, and a cool breeze touches his cheeks and ears, and he feels like he’s standing on a precipice. He looks down at where their hands are still hooked together, half expecting Quentin to pull away.

“She sounds amazing,” Quentin says. “Do you have a photo?”

What? Okay, yeah. He does. “Uh yeah.” Eliot fumbles to pull out his phone and opens it to a picture from the past summer, Margo in a summer dress at brunch at an outdoor cafe, her hair pouring in waves around her shoulders. “This is Bambi.”

“Bambi,” Quentin replies, thoughtful. “Because of her eyes. She’s beautiful.”

Eliot looks at him, surprised. This was not the reaction he expected. Quentin meets his eyes. “Thank you for showing me,” he says, all warmth and sincerity, and… okay, Eliot may have gotten used to a certain degree of judgmental bitchiness from guys—not that they’ve all been horrible—but this is… he’s in new waters here, with Quentin. He seems to have just _got it,_ immediately, who Margo is to him, and is just pleased to be let in. The shock gives way to relief.

Eliot smiles unselfconsciously at Quentin. He feels… he feels light. He feels grateful.

“I should head home soon,” Quentin says, “I have my own best friend to call: _Ted,_ my um, my one remaining relative. He’s going to be impossible—he’s been trying to get me to meet someone the whole time I’ve been here.” 

“Oh, Margo’s teasing will know no ends, I assure you.”

Quentin grins up at him. Eliot is growing so fond of those dimples. 

“Quentin,” he asks, “when I can I spend some more time with you? I’d love to plan a very carefully secretive date, but I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a disadvantage.”

“Do you like to cook?”

Eliot nods, “Yes.”

“Want to make me dinner in your guest house kitchenette? On Saturday?” 

Eliot’s face hurts from smiling at this man. “I’d love to.”

“Great, but only if you let me take you to the market first. I’ll pick you up, around ten?”

This is getting better and better. The answer is _yes,_ but Eliot, teasing, asks, “What kind of market is this?”

“The big one.”

“Okay,” he grins, “you’re on.”

Quentin tugs on his hand a little. Then, for the first time since Eliot asked him out, he lets go. He jerks his head slightly. “Hey, follow me a minute, okay?”

Eliot nods and follows Quentin as he walks silently around the large space, looking for something. It feels as though the deepening night and the stars have settled around them, that sense of possibility from their first steps up to the edge of the roof becoming as palpable as the fragrant, cool air. Finally, Quentin stops just to the north side of the raised entrance where they came through the door.

“Here,” Quentin says, “I think I found one.” He steps toward the wall and looks all around, then up at the sky.

The little jaunt around the roof was amusing, and Eliot is laughing slightly when he asks, “What did you find?”

“A blind spot,” Quentin reaches for his wrist. “Come here.”

_Oh._ Eliot steps toward him instantly. He feels like gravity has been pulling him toward Quentin Coldwater for days, and all he has to do now is stop resisting it.

Quentin pulls him in, so they’re only inches apart, and looks up at him with a soft, determined expression. The moon paints him in cool light and reflects in his eyes as he puts his hand flat on Eliot’s chest; Eliot, catching on, reaches around Quentin’s back and draws him in. He feels Quentin start to rise up on his toes and he almost doesn’t want to close his eyes but he does, finally, as he bends down to kiss him. 

Quentin’s lips are wide and soft, and he kisses Eliot tenderly, so warm and lovely and then, briefly, opens to him, a stronger and more heated touch… _oh,_ Eliot loves it. He wants more, but he doesn’t push: this is enough, the graceful ease of a sweet first kiss. Quentin drops back on his heels and looks up at him with a soft half-smile. Eliot’s heart is pounding as Quentin takes his hand off of his chest and grasps his hand instead. 

“Do you think you know your way home from here?” Quentin asks.

“Yes, I think so.”

An African bird calls somewhere out of sight, and it feels like the stars are slowly spinning around them as Quentin squeezes his hand. “All right,” he says, with one last long look in Eliot’s eyes, “good night, Eliot.”

Eliot barely manages to murmur “good night,” to Quentin as he watches, a little stunned, while Quentin stoops to retrieve his glass with a gentle smile before disappearing down the stairs.

* * *

_ii. By the time the ambulance made it back to the hospital camp it was clear that Quentin was wounded, perhaps as seriously as the soldiers they had brought down the monastery steps. He’d lost a fair amount of blood, and took a bit of a scolding when they got him into the surgery tent, but it was clear that it was out of fear. He was still coherent, but they put him under almost immediately to open him up and check for internal wounds._

_When he finally came to, stitched and bandaged around his middle, and tried to get up to return to work, he was pressed firmly back into the cot by one of the nurses assisting the medical unit. She had bright blue eyes and red hair pulled back in a plait. She was kind and funny, but she didn’t put up with any nonsense; Quentin was immediately taken with her._

_Arielle, at twenty-four, was the oldest of the nurses that the nearby town of Lille had organized to assist the medical volunteers with the wounded soldiers. She had resisted her family’s efforts to see her married to quite a few men that she deemed boorish or overbearing, but she saw something in Quentin Coldwater that she liked._

_A surgical hospital in a war zone was a strange place to court, but the couple felt, in retrospect, that it had been ideal. They worked together to save the lives of the soldiers as the war went on, their mutual respect and admiration growing as quickly as their affection. Arielle and Quentin became friends and lovers—no one in the war zone particularly caring if they shared a tent, and many of their colleagues actively rooting for their romance—and shortly after the Armistice they were married._

_As for the monastery at Mont des Cats, it fell fully into the hands of the German army the morning after Quentin’s mission. It was only much later, while trying to piece together what may have caused his strange fate, that they learned that the officer with the sword had likely been Prince WiIlhelm of Hesse, briefly heir to the throne of Finland, the sole commanding officer to have been killed in the battle. The body of the abbot that Quentin had been protecting when he was stabbed by the young royal was never recovered._

_True to his word, after the war Quentin took Arielle and traveled to_ _Cîteaux_ _to deliver the tiny reliquary to the abbot of Abbaye de Cîteaux, the seat of the Cistercian Order, much to the elderly man’s surprise and relief. The little box that had been pressed so urgently into his coat pocket contained the relics of St. Anthony that had been installed at Mont des Cats when the monastery was built by the Hospital Brothers of St. Anthony, in 1650. While in_ _Cîteaux_ _, Quentin accepted the abbot’s blessing, which mostly made him feel flustered and self-conscious—but Arielle considered it an honor, so he submitted to it with as much grace as he could._

_The couple settled in Lille, and opened a small medical practice as the town recovered in the aftermath of the war. In the spring of 1921 their son, Rupert, was born. Quentin and Arielle were extremely pleased, devoted parents. By the time Rupert was eight, however, it was becoming apparent that something was wrong._

_Quentin was thirty-nine, but he didn’t appear to have aged a day in the past decade. His hair was the same soft brown that it had been in his youth, with no hint of grey, and he had none of the laugh lines or other signs of age shared by other men approaching forty. He hadn’t been affected by a single one of the many illnesses that had passed through the town, either, despite having a young child and personally visiting many ill patients. The town was beginning to talk about Quentin’s strange youthfulness, and Arielle grew eager to leave. In the summer of 1929, while he could still reasonably argue that his passport and birth certificate were in fact his own, Quentin brought his wife and young son with him and moved back across the ocean to Philadelphia._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My artist-collaborator for this story is creating a piece to illustrate this chapter, and as soon as it's ready, I'll provide a link and let you all know!
> 
> I'd like to thank Rizandace for her help with some of the rough spots, here. Dialogue, woo! It's a process. Next week we'll hear from Quentin again, (and yes, Ted!)


	4. Chapter 4

The walk home up the hill seems to take minutes for Quentin, even though he knows it’s a good half hour. True to his long habits he tries to be present, mindfully noticing how it feels to walk, listening to the sounds of animals and insects, smelling the scent of freesia on the cooling air as he gets higher up, greeting the couple of people he passes on the road. His thoughts, however, keep returning to how Eliot had looked at him, up on that roof, and to their _kiss._ The memory of that kiss sees him all the way up the hill, down the path, and through his door before he has really even noticed.

Quentin clicks on the lamp, starts the kettle, and goes to change clothes. It’s late, and he takes out his tablet and props it up on top of his dresser to connect while he unlaces his good shoes. Ted appears on the small screen shortly after—he’ll just have to put up with being carried around, tonight. 

“Well hello there!” Ted begins, “I was just thinking about starting dinner. How was the party?” He appears his normal, good-natured self, and he takes a cue from Quentin and sets his own laptop on the kitchen counter. Quentin unbuttons his shirt and watches as Ted starts rooting through the fridge.

Quentin knows that Ted’s going to be just… such a little shit about this, he knows it. He’s also kind of excited to tell him, and he half laughs at himself, pressing his lips together as he focuses on his buttons, drawing out the inevitable. When he looks back up at the screen, Ted is leaning in, peering at him, and holding… a cabbage? His eyes are squinting at the screen through his glasses.

“Okay, what happened?” Quentin rolls his eyes at his scrutiny. “That is not a ‘thank god I’m home from that tiresome social ordeal and can read a book’ face. You look almost like you’ve…” 

Ted’s eyebrows shoot up and he cracks a sly grin. He sets down the cabbage and gets even closer to the screen. “Quentin Coldwater, did you _meet a guy?”_

Quentin sighs up at the ceiling. “Ted, your powers of observation are irritating, as always.” He can’t help smiling, however. “Yes, I met a guy.”

“Hot damn!” Ted picks up the cabbage and waves it at the camera. “I knew it, I knew it! I knew you were going to meet a guy!” He turns back to the fridge for a moment and reappears with a stick of butter and a pint of cream as Quentin retrieves his pajamas out of his drawer. 

“Okay, first of all, you didn’t _know I was going to meet a guy._ That’s just... just total nonsense. Second— ”

“Well, maybe I did,” Ted interrupts him, “you don’t know. Can we ever truly know the mind of another?” Ted’s dramatics are very endearing, as usual, and Quentin rolls his eyes affectionately.

“So tell me,” Ted’s melting butter in a skillet now, “I want to hear all about the lucky fellow. What’s his name?”

“His name is Eliot.” Quentin changes into his pajamas as he tells Ted about how they met the other day while Eliot was touring the hospital, and how he’s writing essentially a field report on the operations there, and that he ran into him at the party with Jane. 

“All right, all right, yes yes, very interesting,” says Ted, who is now frying a sausage and stops slicing cabbage to level Quentin with an impatient _look. “_ Now _tell me about him.”_

Fine. But Ted is going to have to listen while Quentin makes tea. He carries the tablet into the kitchen and props it against the bread box. 

“Well,” he begins, “he’s very tall, and he’s just… he’s so elegant.” Quentin’s getting distracted, actually, thinking about the kiss again. He busies himself with the tea and tries not to blush. “He has dark hair, in curls…” he pantomimes where Eliot’s curls sit, moving his fingers around the sides of his head, “…and he’s really handsome. Just, beautiful, really. Hazel eyes, and a cleft chin like, um… like Lawrence Olivier.”

Quentin feels ridiculous. When he looks up at the screen, Ted is giving him a look that could only be called _fond._ “Go on,” he says, stirring his cabbage, sprinkling in sugar and salt. “How old is he, where’s he from? What else do you like about him?” 

“Um, mid-thirties. Midwest, I’d say, from what’s left of his accent, but he’s very cosmopolitan, now. His voice is gentle, and um… he’s thoughtful? And he’s kind, I can already tell.” 

Quentin brings his tea and the computer and sits on the bench in his tiny kitchen table nook. Ted has lowered the heat on the stove and is steaming his cabbage with some heavy cream while he warms up a bowl of rice. Quentin smiles as he watches him. It’s one of Arielle’s old French country recipes, so much a part of the fabric of their family life that it doesn’t even need to be mentioned, but it gives Quentin a warm feeling to see it, just the same. 

“Also,” he finally says, over his teacup, “he looks at me like… like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. In... in a really good way, I mean.”

“That’s a nice feeling, isn’t it?” Ted asks. He’s brought his laptop over to the table, and they’re talking face to face. “Sounds like this is mutual, then?” 

“Yeah he, um. He asked me out.” 

“Oh ho ho! You already have a date? Where is this dreamboat taking you, exactly?”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “He’s making me dinner on Saturday. I’m taking him to Owino market first, that morning. He’s new here. I thought he should see it.”

“Well, that sounds like fun. But you both need to be careful, please. I know I don’t need to tell you.” Quentin nods. He knows, and in spite of all his teasing about Quentin’s lack of a love life, Ted knows, too. 

“Romantic dinner in, though?” Ted continues. “That’s a good call. Maybe you’ll even get a kiss.”

Quentin really tries not to respond to that. He really does. He nods and takes a sip of his tea, but his blush gives him away. 

Ted bursts into laughter. He has a wonderful, uninhibited, throaty laugh that Quentin normally enjoys, when it’s not quite so embarrassing. “Oh lord, Pops,” he says, “how did you manage that? Ran into the man at a work party, somehow got both a date _and_ a kiss?”

Quentin waits another moment for Ted to settle down, and for dramatic effect. “I took him up on the roof to have drinks under the stars. He asked me out, we talked… I kissed him.” Ted looks momentarily incredulous. “Ted,” Quentin says, still calmly sipping tea, “I _have_ experienced romance before.” 

Ted huffs at him, still smiling, and shakes his head. “I kind of thought you’d forgotten all about it.” He gets up from the table; Quentin can see him gathering up his supper and turning off the stove. “You know it’s been over 40 years since Nan passed,” he’s calling from across the room. (Ted’s instincts here are good—not looking him right in the eye _does_ make that easier to hear.) “I’ve been thinking you could use someone special in your life.”

“I have dated, you know,” Quentin protests. Hell, he _lived_ with Ted for most of that time. 

“Those guys don’t count for much, now,” Ted explains, between bites. “A guy in this country, a guy in that country… a short-term lover, a summer fling. I’m not knocking it,” he points this out with a wave of his fork, “that’s _my_ life, you know that, I’ve never wanted to settle down. But I’m not you.”

“Hey, look,” (Ted is putting the cart _way_ before the horse, here,) “I’ve _just_ met Eliot. He’s only in the country for a few weeks, maybe a month. He lives in _Switzerland,_ Ted. And, and…” Quentin sputters, “you _know_ there are reasons for me not to get attached.”

“I know, Pops,” Ted has quit joking, Quentin can tell from his eyes. “I just happen to think your reasons are wrong. You deserve to fall in love.” 

Well. That’s not exactly the kind of statement one can argue with. But that doesn’t mean it would be wise. Also, did he mention he’s _just met the man?_

“I’ll consider the possibility,” Quentin finally tells Ted. “Let’s just see how things go with a date or two, though, okay?” 

“Okay,” says Ted, “I’m just saying. Keep an open mind. And hey Pops?”

“Yes?”

“Congrats on kissing Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.” Ted grins at him and Quentin has to laugh.

“All right, all right, thank you. I’m going to go to bed. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yep. Love you.”

“Love you too, Ted. Goodnight.”

* * *

_Quentin worked in Philadelphia’s only public hospital throughout the Great Depression, mainly serving the city’s impoverished— now a much greater population than ever before. Arielle returned to work as well, once Rupert reached his teens and the New Deal had finally taken hold in the staunchly Republican city. Throughout it all, Quentin’s condition remained unchanged. He never aged, nor did he become ill, although he continued to be afflicted by occasional periods of melancholy, as he had in his youth. By the time he was forty-five years old, Quentin had grown a beard and begun to use cosmetics to make himself appear closer to his true age— an effort that was to continue for many years._

_Arielle was sometimes troubled by her husband’s state, but their marriage, an unusually egalitarian partnership for the times, held fast. In 1940 Rupert married Angela, a wonderful young woman from South Philadelphia whom he met at the Art Institute, and she was brought into the family secret before their son, Theodore, was born the following year._

_Quentin loved being a father, and he loved being a grandfather even more. As Teddy grew from a beautiful baby into a bright little boy, Quentin found that being able to teach and care for a child and also conspire with him was a very great delight. The family moved to Baltimore after Quentin’s father passed away, and just before Rupert went away to the war. Arielle and Quentin purchased a home large enough for all of them, and settled into the city and new work at the university hospital as they helped raise their grandson and waited for their son to come home._

_When his father returned from the war Teddy Coldwater was seven years old— much too young to understand the toll that the experience had taken. Rupert had the love and support of his family and received the best care for his mental health that was available at the time, but he would always be haunted by what he had witnessed during World War II. The young Coldwater family lived for many years with Quentin and Arielle, and eventually, with their help, they purchased the adjoining twin and moved next door. Teddy had a room in each house._

_By the time young Ted started college, Quentin was having trouble evading questions at the hospital. He could pass for a man in his forties, but certainly not his sixties. He retired from his position with as little fanfare as possible, and took a break from medicine. He would spend most of the next fourteen years studying and teaching music. He traveled, learned languages, read, and enjoyed his family._

_While he was usually content in this life, Quentin watched as his wife bore the embarrassment of strangers assuming that her husband was her son. Although they remained in love throughout their marriage, their circumstances became increasingly difficult for Arielle. When she was in her late sixties, she traveled to France to visit family for the final time; upon returning home, she had a new proposal for how they could live their lives. Although it was a bitter pill, Quentin accepted it: he changed his name, and became Arielle’s husband in private only. In public, he played the role of a distant cousin who had come to stay with the family, and slowly abandoned the disguises that had aged him for so many years._

_As the 1960s progressed, Ted Coldwater earned degrees in philosophy and journalism, began graduate studies, and started writing for newspapers. By pure luck, he was three years too old to be entered into the draft for the Vietnam war. Instead, Ted threw himself into the protest movement. He wrote and published many essays, under a pseudonym because of his newspaper work, about the philosophical underpinnings of armed conflict and the moral bankruptcy of the Johnson and Nixon administrations. Ted organized against the war until 1972, the year that American troops were finally withdrawn, and the year when his grandmother, at the age of seventy-eight, passed away in her sleep._

_Quentin took Arielle’s death hard, even though he had known it would come some day. He moved in with Rupert and Angela for a few years, passing his own home to Ted, and remained in mourning well after he emerged from the deepest part of his depression. His family’s love carried Quentin through his grief, until he was able to return to the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the over-arching plot of this story is roughly based on “Age of Adaline,” it also borrows a couple of ideas from a tv show called “Forever” that aired for, tragically, only one season on the abc network a handful of years back. In particular, Ted was partially inspired by a character played by Judd Hirsch on that show, and Quentin’s relationship with Ted, including their humor and deep mutual affection, is similar to what I remember between the protagonist of “Forever” and his son. It was a great show, even though the whole solving-murders-weekly thing was super unnecessary to, you know, the romance of it all.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Next week, a visit from Eliot. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little chapter, so I thought I'd publish it a day early-- surprise!-- and then publish chapter 6 tomorrow, on the regular schedule. Hope you enjoy!

Eliot spends the next two days organizing his research methodology while trying to get a clear picture of what he’s facing with this labyrinthine institution. He’s careful to leave some room for the projects that he doesn’t yet know about—there’s probably a lot going on that hasn’t even entered his periphery. While Director Pickwick is helpful on the surface, it's clear that he hopes to steer Eliot’s attention to the newest and most modern features of the hospital. Quentin had been right: the maps that Eliot has been provided are laughably incomplete, and he really could use his help understanding this place. 

The thing is, though, that Eliot would also  _ truly _ like to see Quentin for, well, obvious personal reasons, but he’s been trying not to crowd the man. They have a date; there are social conventions, after all. He’d sent him a nice, carefully coded text the day after the party.

_ Hi! Thanks for the view! (night sky emoji) Looking forward to seeing you Sat. _

He had received one in return.

_ Just wait until you see the market! _

Quentin had said that he could see him on Saturday, and they have definite plans. But Eliot has been daydreaming about that kiss, and the way that Quentin looked at him, and remembering everything that happened for two days now and… as absurd as it feels, he’s impatient. 

When Friday afternoon rolls around, Eliot decides that maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just… pop by and say hello.  _ Oh _ , he muses,  _ it would be nice to bring him flowers. _ He can’t, obviously, but. Eliot reminds himself, strictly, that they have to appear to be colleagues and friends, and nothing more. The vague outline of Quentin’s schedule that Director Pickwick provided says only “Infectious Diseases” for Friday afternoon, so Eliot takes the path leading south from the Assessment Center a couple of hours after lunch. There are flowers all around, large and bright or small and fragrant, planted in beds around the hospital buildings. Eliot’s romantic mood will just have to be satisfied with those. 

Evidently, someone saw him coming, because no sooner has Eliot set foot inside the grand, open foyer of the Infectious Diseases Institute than the Director herself, Dr. Estella Mugisa, is descending the central staircase toward him, her high heels clicking authoritatively down the steps. Dr. Mugisa is a tall, very fashionable, extremely professional woman who appears to be in her forties. She has rich, deep brown skin and her hair is close-cropped and her makeup is on-point and she obviously knows exactly what she’s doing. Eliot had been impressed and intimidated when he met her on Tuesday, and she’s no less impressive and intimidating right now, heading straight toward him in a beautifully tailored pantsuit that was clearly cut to be worn with her heels.

“Mister Waugh,” she stops immediately in front of Eliot and looks him in the eye. “We were not expecting you this afternoon. How can I help you?”

Eliot notices a small gold cross glinting on a chain at her throat, a good reminder that most people here are religious. Pushing past the automatic sense of threat that this brings up for him, Eliot clears his throat and meets her eyes. “Dr. Mugisa, please forgive the intrusion. I was actually hoping that someone could tell me where to find Dr. Coldwater?”

“Do you have an appointment with Dr. Coldwater?” Her tone is authoritative and professional, but not unkind.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Eliot explains. “He had Director Pickwick provide me with his schedule, and it indicates that he’ll be in this department this afternoon? Dr. Coldwater offered to show me around the hospital complex, and I’m hoping to arrange that.” He makes an apologetic gesture, “There are so many programs here that aren’t marked on the map I was given.” 

Dr. Mugisa is giving him a thoughtful, assessing look. Eliot hastens to add, with a little grin, “I don’t want to disturb his work, though, so if he’s too busy to see me please feel free to send me away.” 

“No, no,” she says, and she smiles slowly in a way that Eliot finds inscrutable. “I don’t believe he’s too busy to see you. Do you have one of those maps with you?”

“Yes, I do.” Eliot sets his attaché case on the metal bannister and opens it to pull out a photocopied aerial map of the hospital campus. He hands it to Dr. Mugisa, and she produces a pen from a pocket and circles a set of rooftops to the northwest of Mulago Hill, back from the road and behind another large building. Handing the paper back to him, she marks a small “x” in the center.

“These are the tuberculosis wards,” she tells him, “Dr. Coldwater will be in the courtyard, here, with the patients. You can go there if you wish, but keep some distance. It is recommended that you wear a mask. Follow me, please.” 

Eliot follows the Director down a hallway, where she eventually reaches a supply closet and hands him a cloth face mask. “Here you are.” she says. “You may keep this. It can be washed and reused.”

“Thank you,” Eliot says, sincerely. “Forgive me, but, I thought that Dr. Coldwater worked primarily with the HIV patients? Mainly children?”

“Oh, he does,” she says, shaking her head as though she disagrees. “But he also works with the maternal AIDS patients, some of the other adults,  _ and _ he’s very helpful with our collaborative research.” The Director sounds fond and possibly a little exasperated, mysteriously, but Eliot is just happy that he seems to have broken through her formal, hierarchical manner and is now being addressed like a peer. “Dr. Coldwater is one of our finest physicians,” she continues, “but we must share him with Obstetrics and Pediatrics. And he has side projects as well, such as this,” she points to his map with a small smile, “you’ll see.” 

“I appreciate your help, Dr. Mugisa.” Eliot says warmly, extending his hand. “I’ll call your office next week to arrange a time to discuss the work of the Institute?”

She shakes his hand and offers him a broader smile. “Excellent. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Waugh.” Then the Director turns and walks purposefully back toward her office, as Eliot peers at the tiny “x” on his map.

#

The tuberculosis wards are, indeed, well hidden: tucked into the northwest side of the hill behind the larger old maternity building, out of the way and not even visible from Lower Mulago Hill Road. Eliot walks through the oldest part of the hospital, with short stone walls and gnarled trees surrounding the elderly buildings, and it feels a bit like he’s going back in time. When he finds the TB buildings they are long and squat, painted white, with metal-framed louvered windows and porches with overhangs supported by low columns; the original roofs have been covered over with corrugated metal. There’s a large central courtyard where patients are clustered in small groups, some in rocking chairs on the deep porches, and in the center of the courtyard is a covered pavilion. Eliot has put his mask on, but he lowers it to smile as he spots Quentin. He’s sitting at a table with three Ugandans, two older men and a young woman in a colorful skirt and white blouse, and they are playing cards.

The group is laughing and chatting in Swahili. One of the older men is wearing a mask, but Quentin is not. Eliot’s Swahili isn’t fluent, but he can get by. 

_ “Habari!”  _ he calls out a friendly hello and waves as he approaches. Quentin looks up at him and seems to be startled for a second, then cracks a huge smile. He has his hair down loose around his shoulders; he looks lovely.

“Eliot! Habari! Come meet some friends!” 

Eliot lopes up to the pavilion and stops just inside, letting himself lean on a post about two meters from the table and chairs. He grins at Quentin and gestures to his mask around his neck.

“Should I put this on?”

“No, you’ll be alright if you stay there,” Quentin says. “TB isn’t actually all that easy to catch. Maybe wear it if you want us to deal you in.” 

Eliot waves him off with an  _ oh no, that’s all right _ gesture. “I’m making a habit of interrupting you at tables with your friends,” he says. Turning to the group, he introduces himself more formally with a small, flourished bow,  _ “Shikamoo. Mimi ni Eliot Waugh.” _

The group waves and says hello while Quentin provides introductions: Elijah, the eldest of the patients, who is more comfortable with Swahili than English; Sanyu, who is wearing the mask because his strain of tuberculosis is drug-resistant; and Immaculate, who is new at the hospital. They are playing gin rummy.

“This wasn’t  _ precisely _ what I pictured when Dr. Mugisa sent me over here,” Eliot tells Quentin, still grinning. He’s so glad to see him. 

“My guess is that she wanted you to see this area,” Quentin says, switching back to English and gesturing for his companions to keep playing if they want to, “it could definitely use more resources, and she’s a smart woman.”

Eliot’s expression softens. “And your project here?” He gestures around at the card table and the courtyard and buildings. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“Humanity,” Quentin says. He smiles a tight-lipped smile as he plays his hand, then turns to explain. “The stigma with tuberculosis is particularly bad, at Mulago. I come over to visit at the end of the day on Fridays so no one will protest me going back to work.”

Elijah waves at Eliot to get his attention. He’s a thin old man, his white cotton shirt hanging loose from his shoulders and his bony hands shaking slightly where he’s carefully holding his cards. “I have been here for almost two years,” he says. His accent and his voice are thick, and Eliot strains a bit to understand him as he continues. “In all this time, I have never seen my doctor’s face.” This is strange and startling. Eliot steps a bit closer to listen. 

“Quentin here,” Elijah says, gesturing toward him, “he brings us newspapers and books, and he insisted we can have our own things, not only a bible. He’s not afraid of us.” He levels Eliot with a patient, questioning look, as though waiting for him to disapprove, and when Eliot doesn’t he nods, apparently satisfied, and plays his hand. 

“I won’t disturb your game much longer,” Eliot tells them. “Quentin offered to show me the lesser-known places at Mulago, and I’m glad to have come here.” 

“Eliot is new here on the hill,” Quentin tells them, as he plays his cards. “He’s writing a report for the WHO on how well the hospital works, so I want to make sure he gets the whole picture. We can use all the international help we can get.” This pronouncement results in murmurs of agreement all around. “I’m taking him to the market tomorrow— he’s never been. Immaculate, you need something colorful for your bed, yes? In green?” 

She has a beautiful smile.  _ “Asante sana,”  _ she says—thank you very much.

“Do any of you know of anything else that anyone needs?”

Sanyu puts in that one of the young men needs shaving soap, and they could use thread for mending. Quentin nods that he’s got it. 

“Excuse me for a moment, friends?” he says, then gets up from the table and comes over to stand beside Eliot, where he’s leaning against the post. Quentin looks at him, and then he looks down with a small, shy smile. 

“The treatment for TB is terrible,” he says quietly. “It takes at least half a year, when it works. For Sanyu, it’ll be three times that. The least we can do is help make this more like a home than a prison.”

“I understand,” Eliot tells him. “I hope I haven’t intruded—I need to learn about the parts of the hospital exactly like this, and would love your help. But…” He has to be careful here. He shoots Quentin a quick look and turns back toward the table. “... please forgive me if I’ve been too  _ impatient.” _

Quentin looks pleased as he glances wryly over at Eliot. “Not at all. I’ve been a bit  _ impatient _ as well.”

Well. 

Here they are, standing side by side and smiling toward the middle distance while they do their best not to flirt, even though they’ve both just admitted that they’ve been eager to see each other. Is this how guys here act when they’re, he supposes, the East African equivalent of ‘bros,’ and definitely  _ not _ thinking about making out with each other? 

Eliot is out of his depth. He very much wants to turn to face Quentin, look into his eyes, touch his hand, step in closer… and none of that is going to happen. He settles for turning part way and reaching out a hand to set it on Quentin’s shoulder in what he’s sure must appear a simple, friendly gesture. 

“I should get going,” he says quietly, “I’ll see you in the morning for the market, and be ready at ten? I’m in cottage number six.”

Quentin smiles warmly up at him. “Yeah, that’s perfect. We can call an Uber,  _ after _ I get there.”

Eliot grins and bites his lip. He laughs a little and tries to school his face into something non-incriminating. Quentin’s combination of shyness and boldness has him off-balance, and it’s a giddy feeling. He turns to address the table, taking a step toward them. 

“Thank you, it’s been a pleasure to meet all of you,” he tells them in reasonable but imperfect Swahili. “ _ Kwaheri, tuonane tena,”— _ goodbye, see you soon. 

He looks back and smiles at Quentin with a wave as he leaves, and hears him call, “Wear good walking shoes!” as he heads toward the red dirt path that cuts up and across the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow: Owino Market. <3


	6. Chapter 6

Eliot’s best walking shoes are, in point of fact, not walking shoes. They’re his most broken-in brown oxfords, which have a decent leather footbed. He’s spent a good portion of last night and this morning agonizing over what to wear _with_ these shoes for this, the excursion that is, he supposes, the pre-date for his date with Quentin. A suit is out of the question for a trip to a busy, probably dusty African market. It will likely be warm, so layering is tricky. And he should probably try not to look outrageously gay, which is normally pretty much his entire weekend aesthetic. This is a nightmare. 

Finally, Eliot settles on a patterned dark blue shirt with the cuffs rolled up, no tie, and slim navy trousers with a dark brown belt. When in doubt, go with a monochromatic color palette. He could barely eat this morning for his nerves, eventually managing a banana with his coffee. 

He’s been thinking for a couple of days about what to make Quentin for dinner. Assuming he’s not a vegetarian (which he _has to_ remember to ask,) Eliot thinks he’ll try for a variation on boeuf bourguignon, with whatever ingredients he can find. The kitchen-corner of his little one-bedroom cottage has miniature everything, including a short stove with two electric burners and an oven that would barely fit a ten-inch cake pan, but the cupboard is equipped with a small but heavy, lidded cast-iron pot that _will_ fit in the oven. If he takes care of this pot, he should be able to make everything from bread to eggs to tagines in it while he’s in Kampala, just… one dish at a time. 

Eliot’s metal-lattice windows are open to let in the morning air. He made it to a slightly off-campus, strange little bodega-like market on Thursday, so he has a little bit of fresh food and some cooking essentials, and a slender, handmade vase of calla lilies from a sidewalk vendor sits on the kitchen counter. Everything is tidied up in here, but it looks… well, mostly like a slightly run-down, older African extended-stay motel, the walls inside the same orangey-gold as the outsides of the buildings, and Eliot regrets the lack of anything, other than the vase and flowers, that would give it a sense of personal style. Maybe he’ll find something at the market. Mostly he’s nervous and excited to see Quentin, feeling like energy is crackling on the surface of his skin.

When the knock comes it’s a couple of minutes past ten, and Eliot opens the door to Quentin rocking back and forth on his feet with a colorful woven basket slung over his shoulder. “Hi,” he smiles and lifts up the basket in a very cute gesture that basically says _look, I brought a basket,_ “can I come in?”

“Please,” Eliot says, stepping back and opening the door with a sweep of his arm as he ushers Quentin in. 

Quentin is wearing shorts. They’re much more outback-explorer than preppy—not cargo shorts, but it’s a close thing—hitting above the knee and making it impossible not to notice that he has very nice, lightly furry, muscular legs. He’s got on boat shoes, and a long-sleeved black waffle-knit shirt that looks terrific across his shoulders, and he has his hair up in a loose bun. Absolutely adorable, really, and Eliot grins at him as he closes the door behind him. 

“I like your market ensemble.”

“Thanks,” Quentin says cheerfully. He looks at him and swallows. “You um. You look fantastic.” 

Eliot feels… pleased, but also a little shy, which is ridiculous but evidently an effect that this man has on him. “Thanks,” he looks down with a small laugh to cover his nerves. “Do you think this is okay? Weekend casual and not-obviously-gay was a real challenge for me, fashion-wise.”

Quentin gives him a soft look and sets down his basket. He reaches out to set his hands on Eliot’s forearms and looks up at him. 

“It’s great,” he says earnestly. “Try not to worry, okay?” 

Quentin touching him is nice, it’s grounding. He rolls his arms upward and lightly takes Quentin’s hands. “Easier when you’re here.”

Quentin squeezes his hands and lets go of one, and then he’s leading them further into the room. He closes the curtain over one of Eliot’s front windows, and then the other, still pulling him along by the hand. Eliot finds this amusing and charming and a little bit hot, honestly.

“All right,” Quentin turns to face him again. “Social cues. Guy friendship in Uganda. I said I’d help.”

Eliot nods. He did indeed, and god knows he could use the help, but Quentin in this sudden teacher-mode is very appealing and Eliot can’t keep himself from grinning at him.

“We’ll attract attention for being white guys,” Quentin continues, “but not because people will think we’re on a date. You look very handsome, which I’m going to pretend not to notice the entire time.” 

Eliot laughs, and possibly blushes. “Okay, I’ll try to return the favor. Not that it will be easy.”

“So, all right,” Quentin begins, pressing on with adorable, hurried intensity, “I know this seems, um, counter-intuitive, for such a homophobic culture. But, it’s part of the, uh, the intense religiosity, of every aspect of life.” 

A lock of his hair has come loose and fallen into his face, and Quentin pushes it behind his ear. He’s captivating, and seems completely unaware of it. He continues in a breathy rush, like he’s laboring to get his thoughts out into the air:

“Men can have close friendships because that’s like, approved, by god. Encouraged. But it’s a completely separate, um, _realm of life_ from courtship and marriage, which is entirely heterosexual and which—okay, it’s a little more modern in the city, but it’s traditionally heavily ritualized and controlled. There’s just. There’s no crossover at all.” 

Quentin has been gesturing with his hands while he explains this, and it’s a completely surreal experience for Eliot, focusing on taking in this information about platonic friendship customs while being so actively attracted to him. He nods and does his best to focus on what he’s saying.

“So,” Quentin continues, “it’s okay for us to do friend-things in public, we don’t have to act like strangers or like, American business colleagues. It would be okay to, say, pass a sandwich back and forth, or share a bottle of beer.”

Eliot raises his eyebrows incredulously at him. “Really?”

“Seriously! We can also stand or sit or walk close together and no one will think it’s weird.” Quentin takes a step toward Eliot, stops right in front of him, and puts his hand on his upper arm. “Not suspicious at all,” he says, and smiles up at him.

“Okay,” Eliot says, “well. That’s nice, actually.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees. “It’s okay for us to do things like this.” He moves to stand next to Eliot and sets his hand on his shoulder while leaning in and pretending to point at something in front of them. Eliot laughs a little at the silliness of the pantomime, and Quentin takes hold of his arm and puts it around his own shoulders, then settles his arm around Eliot’s waist. “Or even like this,” he says. 

Okay, Eliot is getting the idea. He starts to relax—they can do this. But for the moment, they don’t have to. He leans in a little toward Quentin. 

“But probably not—” he squeezes Quentin’s shoulder where his hand sits and then lightly runs his fingertips up the side of his neck and into his hair behind his ear, “this. Not at the market.”

Quentin draws in a quick little breath and huffs a small laugh, then moves his hand from the side of Eliot’s waist, sliding it up his ribs. “No,” he says, leaning into Eliot’s hand where he’s touching his head, “probably not. And um,” Quentin somehow spins around until he’s facing Eliot, with his hands on both sides of his waist, and steps close to him. “Not this, either.”

“No?” asks Eliot, who is nothing if not a quick study when it comes to guys. He brings his other hand up to run his thumbs up the back of Quentin’s neck, fingers pressing into his hair, and gently tilts his head so he can look into his eyes. Quentin is beautiful and intent, and Eliot smiles at him, “Definitely not this.”

“I… I think you’ve got it.” Quentin sounds a little breathless, his eyes wide and dark. Eliot cups the back of his neck with his hand, brushing his cheekbone with his thumb, and leans down to kiss him. 

Quentin… rises up, into the kiss. His lips are full and soft, strong, and they open and slide beautifully against Eliot’s, feeling him and letting him in. Eliot sinks down against Quentin and wraps his other arm around him. He didn’t… he wasn’t planning, on this. On kissing him again, so soon. But now that it’s happening he’s just… he’s trying not to get carried away but it’s _so good._ It’s so good, and he stands in the middle of the tiny orange front room of his African guest house, with the curtains drawn, and holds this man and kisses and kisses and _kisses_ him, and time just… disappears.

Neither of them moves from the spot for what is, probably, oh, maybe a hundred years. It’s lovely, it’s _perfect,_ and it’s with great reluctance and a little bit of disbelief, at least on Eliot’s part, that they finally, somehow, mutually manage to stop kissing. Eliot stands back up to his full height as he feels Quentin sink back down onto his heels, and he opens his eyes, and there he is: a little flushed, with a warm, soft smile. 

“Well,” Quentin murmurs, still gently smiling at him, “we have that.”

Eliot laughs, half in disbelief at it all. “Yes,” he says, “we certainly do.” He still has his arm around Quentin’s shoulders and his hand in his hair, and he just… he laughs, and gently pulls him in. Holds onto him for a moment. _Wow._

Quentin giggles against him, and wraps his arms lightly around his waist. “So um, should we go to the market?” 

Eliot feels so silly, light and effervescent and happy, and a little bit ridiculous. He hasn’t been so blown away by _kissing_ in, well, a very long time. And if Quentin wants to go to the market, that is definitely what they’re doing.

“Mmhmm,” he says. “Especially if we’d ever like to have dinner. That was smart, though, waiting to call an Uber.”

Quentin leans back in the circle of his arms to look at him. “Yeah. They’re like, eerily fast. The drivers like to hang out and gamble in this little shack about half a mile away, behind an open-pot restaurant on the side of the road. You don’t call an Uber until you’re ready for it to be _right there.”_

They manage to check that they have everything they need: they both have lists, of sorts; Eliot gets his sunglasses and room key; Quentin, he learns, is not a vegetarian, so his plan will probably work. As they’re about to leave the cottage to wait for the car to pull up on the nearby road, Eliot settles his hand on Quentin’s shoulder.

“One for the road?” he asks.

Quentin grins up at him, all dimples. “I guess we do this now, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Eliot murmurs, bending down to kiss him again, “I really think we do.”

#

The trip to Owino market takes about thirty minutes, and they make it mostly quietly, but for the tinny pop music of the Uber driver’s car radio. They don’t talk, in this stranger’s back seat, but Eliot feels like they both want to. He keeps glancing over at Quentin, who treats him to soft and sometimes shy smiles before looking back out the window. 

The city roads take them past upscale residences, walled and gated off, then into the very urban, very corporate heart of the city. Wide boulevards and enormous buildings spread out like there is nothing but space, and cars and taxi vans and boda-bodas stream everywhere. 

Eventually they make their way out of the city center and into a commercial area that becomes increasingly run-down until it strangely and suddenly spits their car out into the taxi stand at the head of what must be, rolling down into a valley behind a row of obscuring buildings and stalls, the enormous public market. 

Quentin rounds up the Uber fare, only about seventy-five cents, to the nearest whole note in Ugandan shillings, and they are on their own. Eliot watches Quentin hoist his basket over his shoulder. He feels very fond and a bit bemused as they make their way down a set of haphazard stairs. Quentin’s energy is infectious—he’s clearly excited to show Eliot around. 

“Come on!” Quentin gestures broadly with his arm, grinning, “Let’s get you a basket. I mean, if you want one?”

“Oh yes, I definitely want a basket.”

He has to follow him closely. The market is densely packed with stalls, and there are people everywhere. Eliot didn’t expect the loud music, but there are radios playing, the sounds blending together with people haggling and chatting and calling to one another. It’s the exact opposite, he thinks, of the shopping plazas and indoor markets that he’s visited in European cities: no overarching aesthetic scheme or set of strict rules is making this cohesive. Blankets on the ground host piles of jeans, right beside restaurants that operate out of the backs of vans. Shacks that look more or less permanent push up against rows of tented awnings covering vendors displaying giant sacks of spices and tables heavy with fruit. The dusty roads seem to flow like rivers, almost entirely covered by hundreds large, colorful umbrellas shading the vendors and their wares. Further down the valley and to the north, Eliot can see some clusters of larger buildings, in the middle of the swarm of the market. 

Quentin reaches back and grabs his wrist. “Over here,” he says, and he pulls Eliot into a right turn that lands them at a small hill of colorful woven baskets. He gives his fingers a little squeeze as he lets go, and Eliot feels a zing of happiness at the contact. 

“So, maybe one that can go on your shoulder? The leather-wrapped handles help,” Quentin suggests. The older woman running the stall lets Eliot examine a couple of baskets with nice color schemes, and he settles on a large one in greens and blues that has a wide enough base to be able to stand on its own once he gets it back to the guest house. Their first purchase behind them, they set out into the stream and swirl of people and colors and scents. 

Eliot watches people trying on clothing over their own clothes. He’s startled by enormous mounds of dried fish, large and flat as pancakes, people searching the piles for the best ones. Eventually they come out onto a path wide enough that they can walk side by side and slow their pace. “I’m not usually very comfortable in crowds,” Quentin tells him, leaning in toward Eliot’s shoulder, “but weirdly I like it here? It’s not as chaotic as it looks. There’s a rhythm to it, and people are mostly happy.” 

Eliot is certainly happy, walking here with Quentin. “I’ve been to smaller markets in Kenya, but never anything like this.” 

“What do you want to look for?” Quentin asks. “We should get fresh food after everything else. Oh and tell me when you’re hungry, I want to buy you lunch.”

“Is it okay if I say I’m hungry now? I kind of skimped on breakfast. And something smells wonderful.” 

Quentin beams at him. “Yeah. That’s the pilau. Come on, over here.” He gestures with his head and ducks down another side path. Eliot hears him call from a few yards ahead as he follows after, “And I’m getting us a rolex!”

Before Eliot can wonder what on earth Quentin means, he has caught up to him in front of a small stall made of bamboo poles shaded with tarps. At knee level there are huge metal pots over propane burners, round and larger than washtubs and covered with enormous flat lids. 

“This is probably what smelled so good?” Quentin smiles as he gestures to the pots. 

“Mmhmm,” Eliot nods. It is indeed. Different kinds of pilau are made all over Africa and most of Asia, and this one smells amazing, savory and with a complex blend of spices and onions suffusing the rice. Quentin asks the proprietor, a thin Ugandan man with a wide hat, for two small bowls, and Eliot watches the steam pour out of the pots as the man ladles out portions of pilau and tops them with spiced red beans and matoke then sets the lids back with a loud clang. Once they’re walking away, Eliot takes his first bite and groans at how good it is, and is rewarded with the sound of Quentin laughing beside him. 

About five minutes and a few twists and turns through the market later, Eliot finds out what a rolex is. It turns out to be the name of Kampala’s most beloved street food, an omelette with vegetables and herbs rolled up like a roulade in a large, warm chapati. Quentin leans a little into Eliot’s side as they watch theirs being made, the egg mixture poured out onto a big cast iron griddle shaped like a platter. When it’s ready it’s wrapped in paper and cut in half, and Quentin buys them a bottle of coke to share, with a little grin at the corner of his mouth. 

They manage to find a spot near some busy tables to lean against the side of a truck and eat. The fresh warm food is wonderful—Eliot was ravenous, anyway, but it really is good—and sharing the soda in full view of all these strangers, having it mean nothing to them while it feels like a secret he shares with Quentin, is a delightful little thrill. 

“This is so good,” he says, wiping his mouth with the tiny paper napkin. “Thanks.” Quentin nods at him and smiles around a bite.

“It’s my pleasure,” he finally says, and his eyes catch and hold Eliot’s for a little longer than is probably normal for, like, religious guy pals. Eliot is failing miserably at not noticing how handsome he is, and he smiles to himself as he looks back toward the market in front of them.

It’s so nice, leaning against this truck in this crowded African market, eating street food with Quentin. Eliot can appreciate the beauty in the cacophony of this place and its people, but Quentin’s warmth and enthusiasm make it so much more. 

“Is this part of why you came here,” Quentin asks, gesturing at the breadth of the life in front of them, “to Kampala? Will you tell me about your work? About why you do it?”

“It’s...” Eliot begins. How is he going to put this? “It’s life outside myself, really. Energy directed outward, trying to improve the world for other people. Discovering that was an important part of my recovery.” He says this lightly, like it’s no big deal, like it’s not one of the central truths of his life.

He takes a sip of the coke and lets it sit on his tongue for a minute. Finally, he swallows and says, “I’ll tell you about my life, the whole story if you want, later on. But… I’m happy in humanitarian work, and I like having international horizons.” Quentin nods thoughtfully at this, like he agrees with the sentiment. Eliot continues, “It suits Margo, too. I was the one who brought her into the field, in the end. She was thinking politics, initially, and she’d be good at it, but she does a lot of good for people at CARE.”

“I didn’t know that you worked together,” Quentin says.

“Yep. She’s on the policy end, though. MA in International Public Policy. She’s brilliant at it, tough as nails. My work is more research, writing... feet on the ground. She stays with me when she has to come to the capitol. I could see her running the organization some day, honestly. She’s that good.”

They’ve finished up their lunch and Eliot passes the bottle back, brushing knuckles with Quentin in the process. As they pick up their baskets to move away from the truck, Quentin puts a hand on his arm. 

“I thought you said you and Margo lived in Geneva?”

“I probably did,” Eliot tells him with a smile, “which is _fabulous_ , honestly. The place in Geneva’s hers. She lives there most of the time, but I have a room and I’m usually there a few months out of the year, in between research assignments.” They push away from the truck and pick their way past the tables as he continues. “My own apartment is in D.C. The D.C. branch has me there about half the time, polishing reports and giving a few lectures. I get roped into some meetings with lawmakers—which I hate—but mostly it’s good work.” 

They’ve made their way back into the flow of people, now, and Eliot puts his sunglasses on as they wind through the gaps in the umbrellas. They consult their lists again, and he notices Quentin looking at him, thoughtful and inscrutable, on their way to some destination in the market that he can only guess at. He raises his eyebrows at him in a question, and Quentin smiles at him and shakes his head. 

“Let’s go find these things,” Quentin says. “Later on I want to tell you about Ted.” 

Quentin tracks down a sewing kit with plenty of thread, and picks up some shaving soap and razor blades and lotion from a weird little stand selling toiletries and handheld radios. He buys a magnifying glass for Elijah, one of the large plastic ones with a little light, made for reading, and gets an extra battery for it. Eliot listens to the music playing all around them, and watches kids dart in and out among the shops and piles of goods.

There are textile merchants everywhere, with bright bolts of fabric stacked on tables or held vertically in carts, but Quentin steers them to a particular seller who has pieces with woven patterns, real wax-dyed batiks, and some finished goods. Eliot admires the colors and prints while Quentin finds what he was looking for: a wide-woven piece of heavy cloth with a beautiful African pattern of green leaves and vines, for Immaculate. He buys a long enough piece to make a bedspread, then starts looking at the lighter-weight fabrics. 

“It’s always a matter of how much I can carry,” he says, distractedly, while he fingers through a shelf of folded prints. “A few of the patients enjoy sewing for the others. But I’d like to get some fruit, too.”

“I can carry some things,” Eliot volunteers. Quentin seems to consider him for a moment.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s see what we can find.” 

They end up with several lengths of colorful, patterned cloth, most of which goes into Eliot’s basket. “I’m sure I could carry more, if you’d like,” he says, arranging the bundles, “I only need room for a few groceries.” 

Quentin gives him a soft look, but shakes his head. “No, I think this will be enough for this trip. But I have an idea.” He turns to the owner of the shop, a woman wearing clothing and a headwrap clearly made from her own wares. “Dembe, do you have any square finished pieces that would be suitable for a tablecloth?” He holds his arms out to approximate a size.

“Yes,” she says with a smile, “over here,” and leads them toward the back of her stall. “Any of these.” She indicates a shelf of neatly folded bundles, and nods as she turns to see to another customer.

“If you see anything you like,” Quentin says, reaching out to begin separating the cloth, “maybe I could get you a piece for a tablecloth, for your guesthouse? To brighten it up?”

It’s an excellent idea. “Ooh, fantastic. I could get it, though.” 

“Please, let me,” Quentin urges him, setting his hand once again on Eliot’s arm. “It can be a ‘welcome to Kampala’ gift.” 

_No, that’s you,_ Eliot thinks, already just… so damn fond. He doesn’t say that, of course, but he does agree to the cloth. They spend a few minutes looking at the different options, and settle on a square of beautiful batik in shades of indigo and brown. Quentin has it wrapped in paper before they leave the stall and carefully tucks it into Eliot’s basket.

While they’re buying fruits and vegetables on their way out of the market, a couple of Ugandan men walk by just… casually holding hands? Eliot bumps into Quentin’s shoulder to get his attention, and whispers as urgently as he can, “Quentin! Did you see those guys? What is going on? Do you understand?”

Quentin has been busy selecting exactly one each of about twenty different kinds of fruit, including avocados. (“I just really love fruit,” he’d explained. Eliot is still not used to how cute he is.) Now, he looks at Eliot with regret in his eyes. 

“It’s part of the, um, the physical language of same-gender friendship,” he says. “It’s part of the culture here, but, um…” 

He looks a little apologetic, and Eliot’s heart goes _oh no._

“I don’t think I’d feel comfortable doing that, as a white guy,” Quentin continues. “It would feel like too much of a risk.” 

Quentin grimaces sadly and looks down, and Eliot immediately knows that he _can’t_ let him feel bad about that. He reaches out before he’s even thought about it and uses his fingertips to gently tuck Quentin’s loose hair back behind his ear.

“Hey,” he says, as Quentin looks up at him, “that’s okay. I understand.” He lets his hand settle on his shoulder and gives it a careful squeeze while hoping that Quentin can see in his eyes how much he means it. Quentin’s brow relaxes and he smiles a faint little smile of relief.

By the time they’re trudging back up the narrow steps to the road at the top of the market, Eliot has found suitable vegetables and bundles of herbs, decided he needs a pineapple and a mango, and happily purchased a small, beautiful, cubist-looking painting of a woman in traditional African dress. 

It turns out that Owino Market isn’t a great place to buy fresh beef _or_ decent wine, but Quentin knows a good shop for those and they’re able to easily find an Uber driver who is willing to make stops. Eliot grabs what he needs and a few extra ingredients, and notices Quentin grinning as he watches him read and touch the labels of the wine bottles. Once back in the car, they make their way back through the city toward Mulago Hill. Their baskets and bags crowd the seat between them, and Eliot feels a delighted warmth when Quentin’s hand reaches across the seat behind all of it to twine their fingers together for the rest of the ride.

When they get back, Quentin asks the driver to wait a few minutes, and takes Eliot’s basket while Eliot brings his other groceries up to the guest house door. As he sets the bags down to use his key, a brown monkey about the size of a possum jumps across his stoop and makes a grab for one of them. Eliot is so startled that he nearly drops his keys, but Quentin has his leg out to block the thief already.

“Not today,” he teases, and reaches down with his free hand to pick up the bag. The monkey gives him a withering look and takes off into the bushes. 

Eliot is cracking up, but he gets the door open and lets them inside, where they set his things on the table. 

“Quentin, thank you,” he turns to him and takes both of his hands, mostly getting his laughter under control, “that was so much fun.” 

Quentin smiles up at him. “I thought so, too. Um, what time should I be back?”

It’s not quite two o’clock. Eliot starts to do some mental math, but quickly decides that he’d rather see Quentin again sooner rather than later, anyway. “Around six? If that works for you—I’m not sure everything will be completely done, but pretty close.”

“Six is great.” Quentin’s voice is soft as he steps close and drops Eliot’s hands, and thank goodness Eliot is a quick study—he reaches out to cup the side of his face and bends down and Quentin kisses him, warm and sweet. Eliot loves it. 

“I’ll see you tonight,” Quentin says, and then, while Eliot can still smell him and feel the warmth of his lips, he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see a few photos of Owino Market, Eliot's guesthouse, a rolex, and a vervet monkey, come have a peek at my [tumblr](http://allegria23.tumblr.com/post/627983898004111360/here-are-some-photos-to-accompany-todays-chapter). Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A minor content note: this chapter includes a brief, fairly mild discussion of HIV and the AIDS epidemic. This is based on my own experience, by and large, and I've tried to be as respectful as possible. If you're uncomfortable reading this part of their conversation, it begins at "So, back in the eighties," and is over at "Quentin is grateful for that."

The Uber driver has been, really, _so_ accommodating; Quentin gives him a large tip before hefting his basket up the narrow path past the sago palms and banana plants to his little house. It’s a relief to be alone, in the relative quiet of the landscape in his tiny patch of Kampala, because now he can smile as much as he likes like a total goof while he goes over the morning in his mind. 

Eliot was… well. He was so much fun to be with. Funny, and sweet. He clearly liked the market—watching him discover it had been half the fun. He’d been thoughtful—Quentin had been right about that. Gorgeous, obviously. It feels like great luck to Quentin that someone so beautiful and stylish and self-possessed would be attracted to him, but as unlikely as it seems, there really is no way to deny… (he lets himself finally arrive at the inevitable destination of this train of thought:) _that kiss._

_Oh, boy._

He arranges all the fruit he bought on a large flat basket on his table, leaving very little room for anything else, and replays _that kiss_ in his memory.

Quentin will wash up his morning dishes soon, he’ll read for a while before he showers and gets ready, but the memories of their excursion will keep him company all afternoon. He keeps coming back to the fact that Eliot lives in DC part-time. _Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?_

It might be two or three years before Quentin returns to Baltimore. It seems unlikely that a man Eliot’s age would be unattached and interested in seeing him again after that much time, and Quentin feels a little guilty for fantasizing about meeting him there. It would be wrong to get in the way of his life. No… his plan is to enjoy getting to know Eliot while he’s in Kampala, in whatever way that pans out, and gracefully let him go. 

If Quentin’s learned anything, however, it’s that things that are temporary can be beautiful. As long as they’re careful, he thinks, remembering the softness of Eliot’s lips and the weight and warmth of his hand on his neck… this feels like it could be so good.

After his shower, in the late afternoon, Quentin shaves with a brush and soap and a safety razor. He decides to put on something nice, and ends up in fitted dark jeans and a slim burgundy button-front shirt with his brown tweed sport coat because, as many times as he’s tried and failed to rebel against the fact over the decades, tweed suits him extraordinarily well. At least it’s a modern cut—he’s learned to put effort into making sure he doesn't look like he raided the closet of someone’s dad. Or granddad. 

He ties his hair back neatly—loves the trend of the man-bun, what an excellent development—and tries to look at his face in the mirror. It feels like he’s long since lost the ability to actually see it, for how familiar it is. But there are the bushy eyebrows, the clear brown eyes… he guesses that Ted would certainly tell him, if anything ever changed.

Quentin braces his hands on either side of his sink and looks down. He takes a deep breath and thinks about Eliot—not just the mindblowing kiss, but the openness in his face as he looked down over the market, the way he groaned because he liked his lunch so much, the sound of his laugh when he cracked up and tried to rein it in… Quentin’s mind settles, especially, on how Eliot had tucked his hair behind his ear when he explained that he couldn’t hold his hand, and the look of care in his eyes when he told him it was okay. He’s kind, and he’s decent; Quentin likes him _so much._

Quentin looks up and sees a soft smile on the face in the mirror. On the way out of the house he picks up his leather-bound folio with a notepad and pen, then he locks his door and sets off on foot, following Upper Mulago Hill Road in a broad curve down the hill and toward Eliot’s place.

#

There’s a cool breeze this evening, walking down the hill; Quentin tries to relax and feel it washing over him, smell the scents on the air, but he finds himself too eager. By the time he’s at Eliot’s door his heart is pounding a bit, but he’s going to pretend it’s from exertion. He stands there for a moment, gathering himself, and knocks. 

Eliot opens the door with a big smile. “Quentin,” he says his name like it’s a great relief to see him there, “welcome back!”

Quentin feels the relief, too. He can’t help but smile, and he holds out the folio with the notepad and points to it. “Look! I brought a prop.”

Eliot looks at him like he’s crazy for about one second, then bursts out in a giggle. He glances around the grounds of the guesthouse complex, with a few people coming and going. “Come in, dear colleague,” he reaches out to set a hand on Quentin’s shoulder as he opens the door wider and ushers him inside. “Thank god we have so many very important workish-things to do.”

It feels good, laughing and stepping back inside Eliot’s space, now in the evening, knowing he won’t have to leave for a while. Once the door is closed behind them, Quentin takes his hand. 

“I’m really glad to be back,” he tells him, more quietly and sincerely. He runs his fingers over Eliot’s and lets the question hang in the air between them. 

Eliot thumbs along the side of Quentin’s hand and looks him in the eyes. Eliot’s eyes are a beautiful light hazel with flecks of gold and green, and long, dark lashes—mesmerizing. 

He's hesitant. “Can I kiss you?” Eliot finally asks. 

Quentin grins at him. “Mmhmm,” he says, and pulls him in by the hand, setting that hand on his own back and reaching up for the side of Eliot’s face as he bends down. 

_Oh,_ it’s so nice. Quentin has missed this, missed kissing. But _Eliot_ is just… a little bit intoxicating. He has a short beard, neat and just long enough to be soft rather than scratchy—Quentin loves the texture of it against his mouth, his face. He feels himself smile into the kiss.

Eliot hums when they let go, then gracefully steps further into the room with another sweep of his hand.

“What do you think?” He asks. “Bit better?”

Eliot has hung the painting on the wall opposite the windows, and the cylindrical blue/green basket from the market sits on the floor beside the sofa, holding a folded blanket. Warm evening light splashes from the open windows across the golden-orange room, and Eliot’s new tablecloth adorns the tiny table. 

Quentin walks over toward the vase of flowers on the kitchen counter. “It is,” he tells him, “and these lilies are beautiful. They suit you.”

“Can I take your jacket?” 

Quentin’s jacket ends up over the back of one of the chairs. Eliot is wearing an Outfit—an elegant cream and blue patterned silk shirt with a waistcoat and trousers, and a coordinating tie with an elaborate knot—and over that he has a white apron. His sleeves are rolled up, which is a good look for sure, and his cheeks are flushed as he heads toward his tiny kitchen. 

“So, dinner is in the oven,” he says, pulling some ingredients from a cupboard, “It’s on its fifth hour, which means it’s almost done. I thought I’d make a simple dessert that could bake while we eat? How do you feel about pineapple upside down cake? We could add some diced mango, maybe?”

Eliot is now _officially_ irresistible. 

“That sounds amazing.” Quentin steps up behind him at the kitchen sink in front of the window and slides his hand around him, across the small of his back. “How can I help?”

He ends up cutting up the fruit while Eliot mixes up a quick cake batter in a single bowl with ingredients spread across the counter. He’s managed to pick up some good vanilla, and even almond extract—Quentin watches a couple of drops go into the bowl: this is going to be delicious. 

He peels the pineapple and trims it in whorling spirals, moving up the fruit as Eliot watches. “I think we should try this, don’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Eliot says with a smile and a wink.

This man is so much fun to flirt with. Grinning, Quentin cuts some small cubes and pops one in his mouth, then brings one over to Eliot and feeds it to him, letting his thumb linger for a second on his bottom lip. 

Butter is melting in a cast iron skillet on top of the stove. Brown sugar goes into that, and begins to melt before they layer in a spiral of thin slices of fruit, leaning into each other’s sides a little bit. Quentin puts his arm around Eliot’s waist again—he could definitely get used to touching him—and feels Eliot drape an arm across his shoulders. It’s a nice fit. Eliot is left-handed, and they’re able to work perfectly like this. 

“All right, stand back,” Eliot tells him, grabbing a kitchen towel, “let me get this out of the oven.” He stoops low to lift out a small iron pot and sets it on the other burner, then closes the door and turns up the heat. Eliot’s lanky height makes the already miniature kitchen look like it belongs in a child’s playhouse, and Quentin is both amused and touched that he’s gone to so much trouble in such awkward quarters. 

There are so many good smells, between the buttery, warming fruit and the mysterious dinner dish with its rich and savory aroma. Quentin finds a bowl for the rest of the fruit and stores it in the little refrigerator, where it looks like there’s already some whipped cream, while Eliot finishes cooking and settles the cake, the batter now poured over the fruit, into the oven.

“I just need to set the table,” Eliot says, “will you open the wine?”

The sun is sinking in earnest now. Eliot disappears to what must be the bedroom for a moment and reappears with a candle for the table. Quentin watches as he lights it with a match with long, nimble fingers and feels a little silly about how much he enjoyed that. Eliot has beautiful hands.

There isn’t room on the table for the pot, so Quentin pours the wine while Eliot arranges the food in shallow bowls. He leaves his apron folded on the kitchen counter then stands beside the table. It looks lovely, with the candle casting warm light on the sophisticated batik and the dishes, steam curling up from some kind of stew. Eliot looks even lovelier. 

Quentin steps over and hands him a glass of wine, surveying the table with him. “This looks beautiful, Eliot.” 

Eliot smiles softly, and blushes. “It’s all in the tablecloth. Really pulls the room together.” 

Quentin rolls his eyes and grins at him, and Eliot continues, quietly, “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“Me, too. Cheers.”

They share a sip of wine, a very nice, rich cabernet, and take their seats at last.

# 

“You cooked for me,” Quentin says as he unfolds his napkin. “I know it was my idea, but you didn’t have to. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Eliot tells him. “I’m glad to have this kitchen. This is a variation on boeuf bourguignon, with what I was able to find.”

Quentin’s dish looks like a little work of art, with roasted potatoes with crackled skins tucked along the shimmering main dish and sprinkled with finely minced parsley. It smells marvelous. He takes a bite of the beefy stew and breaks into a grin. It’s so delicious, he has to stop himself from laughing.

“Eliot,” he says, “this is wonderful. Julia Child would be proud.” 

Eliot seems to be pleased with that, and takes a delicate bite, himself. Ahh, _there it is_ , the look that he got when he tried the pilau at the market, like a startle of enjoyment rolling through him. He doesn’t groan, this time, but it looks like it’s taking effort not to. Quentin is growing _very fond_ of watching Eliot enjoy things. He finds his foot under the table and slides his own alongside it.

Eliot smiles softly and takes another sip of his wine. Quentin has another bite of his bourguignon. He watches Eliot, then when their eyes meet he feels caught, slightly shy, and looks down. 

Eliot comes to the rescue by breaking the conversational ice. “You mentioned you wanted to tell me about Ted?”

Relieved, Quentin nods. He can talk about Ted, and not just blush about how handsome his date is. He steadies himself with a slow, deep breath. 

“Ted’s, you know… my family,” he begins. “My folks are gone, but Ted and I lived together for years. He’s more of, just, my _closest_ friend than, like, a great uncle or anything, anymore. He’s been a huge part of my life.”

“In a way, it sounds like you have a Margo, too.” Eliot seems more fascinated than anything. “Although, I guess it’s different because he’s older?” He continues. “How old is he? What’s he like? Do you talk every day?”

“Pretty much, yeah. He’s seventy-nine.” Eliot’s eyes widen at this. Quentin nods and carries on. 

“He’s just… so stubborn. He definitely wouldn’t approve of me saying this like he’s some kind of _elderly person,_ but I like to see that he’s okay every day. He probably feels the same way about me, honestly. He’s funny; bit of a tease. I mean, he knows me really well, so he has plenty of material.” Quentin realizes several moments later that he’s drifted off, smiling fondly thinking about Ted. Eliot is giving him the most charmingly soft look. “But yeah,” he continues, “it’s nice. We tell each other about our lives. Ted’s busy, he runs a little antiques and repair shop. Goes out with a lot of local ladies.”

“Ha! Good for him,” Eliot grins. He looks at Quentin, considering. “It must be good, having an older person in your family just kind of... accompany you through life, even without parents in the picture.”

“Yeah, it is.” Quentin can honestly agree with that, just not in quite the way Eliot is thinking. “I feel lucky. Ted’s always been really supportive and understanding about my queerness, among other things. He was a journalist, before he retired, and he’s, um, just extremely principled. I don’t think I could even count all the wars he’s protested.”

He looks up at Eliot, who is listening intently while he eats. He nods and gestures with his fingers, encouraging Quentin to go on.

“So, back in the eighties, Ted was one of the few journalists who covered the early AIDS crisis—in New York, for the Village Voice. He was involved with the activism, too. When I first came to Africa, it was with him. He was still writing about the epidemic, and I was treating its victims.”

“And you still are.” Eliot seems genuinely moved by this.

Quentin has a sip of wine. He wonders if he should stop here, but decides to go ahead. “Yeah,” he says carefully, “I am. I worked with HIV patients in the States for a little while, but it was just… it was too much for me. Too, um, close to home? I just... couldn’t. Anymore.”

He looks up at Eliot to see his reaction to that, half expecting him to be uncomfortable with the subject, or with Quentin’s earnestness, or to judge him for being weak. But Eliot reaches out and takes his free hand. “I’m sorry.” His voice is kind, and there's a look of sincere empathy in his eyes.

“No, it’s… I’m sorry I took things into such heavy territory, on a first date.” Quentin cringes a little at himself. 

“Hey, no, it’s okay.” Eliot reassures him, rubbing his thumb over the back of his hand. “I want to get to know you.”

“Thank you,” Quentin finally says, quietly, after another sip of wine. “I’m, um. I’m HIV-negative. But I have, you know… lost people. Friends, and patients.”

Eliot looks at him softly. “Thank you for telling me. So am I, by the way. But I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through that.” 

Quentin is grateful for that, for the kindness. He squeezes his hand back. 

Eliot catches his eyes and continues, “So it isn’t the same, really at all, but I’ll tell you some personal things, too. To balance it out.” 

Quentin laughs quietly. “You don’t have to, but okay.”

“Let’s have dessert, though. Hopefully the cake won’t render us speechless, but no promises.” Eliot grins. “It should be done soon, let me check on it.” 

Quentin nods him away, and takes a bite before turning in his chair to watch Eliot peer into the oven, then grab the towel and remove the cake. He tries to be mindful of the taste of the food, and lets it settle him in the present. It’s delicious—Eliot is an excellent cook. It’s really not a surprise; everything Quentin has observed about him so far leads to an impression that Eliot is careful and conscious about many things, with an artistic temperament. It’s appealing.

Eliot appears to have decided that the cake is done. He leaves it on the cool stove in its pan, and is turning off the oven. “Ted sounds fantastic, Quentin. He sounds like a really admirable man.”

 _I’m so proud of him,_ Quentin thinks. He doesn’t say that. That would be weird. 

“He is,” he says instead. “He’s been with me through a lot of things. I really love him— he’s very much my best friend.” Quentin looks at Eliot, swinging the dish towel casually over his shoulder. _What the hell._ He might as well just let him know.

When Eliot returns to the table Quentin offers him more wine; he accepts a little.

“The other thing about Ted,” Quentin says, wanting to just get this out there before they change the subject, “is that even though he doesn’t want to talk about it, he’s aging. Probably in the next few years, I’m expecting to leave Kampala and go home to move back in and look after him.”

“Oh?” Eliot says, surprised. “Has that always been the plan?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of always been the plan, at least for me.” He watches this sink in. It’s absolutely true, and Eliot seems to consider it for a moment before responding.

“Where is ‘home,’ if it’s all right to ask? Where are you going?”

“We, um.” _Well,_ Quentin thinks, _here goes._ “We have a house in Baltimore. One of those old twins, in the neighborhoods—it’s been in the family for a while. Anyway... yeah. That’s where he is now, and his shop’s there.”

Eliot nods, like this is mildly interesting information. He’s looking at the candle, but his eyes widen slightly and he swallows. In the brief silence that follows, Quentin wonders whether he, too, is thinking about the train ride. The train ride between DC and Baltimore… the forty-minute, fifteen-dollar train ride. Eliot covers the pause, though.

“What about your career? Do you know what you’ll do?”

Quentin wipes his mouth with his napkin. He looks up into Eliot’s curious, concerned eyes. “Not really. Maybe some kind of non-profit clinic work, eventually. But as far as my specialty goes, um. Johns’ Hopkins has a collaborative research project here that I work on a little, so I’ll probably see if they can use me for anything back in Baltimore.”

“Do you feel okay about the prospect of being there for… possibly a long time?”

“Well...” he begins. This isn’t something he can exactly explain, but he’ll do his best to be honest about his feelings. “Ted and I will probably be able to travel together sometimes if we want to, at least for a while. But… I mean, yeah. I am. I want to be there with him. Africa will still be here. Maybe it’ll even be less homophobic in the future. But there are other places, too. People always need help.”

“That, they do,” Eliot agrees, looking at him like he’s a rare and mysterious creature that he wants to understand before it floats away in the space aether, or something. Quentin grins a little, self-consciously, and Eliot smiles softly at him in return. “Would you miss it, though? Being here?”

“Yeah,” Quentin replies, but he pauses. He's feeling a little more emotional than he really wants to, right now. “I’ll tell you about my life in Kampala, and why I chose to be here. But let’s take a break from talking about me for a little while?” 

“Oh, it can’t be my turn yet, we haven’t had dessert.” Eliot grins gently, and Quentin feels his foot nudge his own. “Let’s finish up and we’ll go put it together.”

Quentin nods and smiles back at him, grateful for that. He’s nearly done, but he eats slowly and savors his wine, not wanting to let go of Eliot’s fingers, laced with his on the table.

#

After they’ve finished, Eliot takes their bowls to the sink and Quentin follows him and stops in front of the cake. It smells so good, sweet and complex. Quentin watches as Eliot runs a knife around the inside edge, then finds a large plate and places it over the cast iron pan. His elbows come out to his sides and his forearms tense as he inverts the pan onto the plate in one graceful movement and sets it down. 

“Moment of truth…” Eliot says, and he slowly lifts the pan from the cake. 

It’s lovely. Shiny and caramelized, with the fruit still in the spiral they made, a little bit crumbled in one place where it stuck, but that’s all right. Quentin feels bubbly with anticipation.

“Wow, it’s so pretty,” he says, and takes Eliot’s hand and gently swings it, bouncing on his toes a little bit. “Where are the plates?”

Eliot huffs a little laugh and shakes his head, looking fond. “Right in there, and forks in the drawer. I whipped some cream, I’ll get it.”

They end up on the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table and plates on their knees. Quentin can’t help grinning, and he tries the first bite with Eliot watching him with a soft little amused expression. It’s delicious. The cake itself is not too sweet, letting the sugared fruit really shine. 

“Mmmm, I love it,” Quentin sighs, and watches Eliot’s pleased, slightly bashful smile. 

“Oh yeah, this is good,” Eliot chuckles as he tries a bite. His shoulders relax and he hums in his chest as he sinks a little deeper into the sofa—his whole body seems to respond to the pleasure of eating warm, fruity cake. Quentin really wants to kiss him. 

He takes another bite instead. “What were you like when you were younger?” he asks, feeling relaxed and content with both the cake and the company. “I really do want to know more about you.”

Eliot thinks about it for a moment. “Well,” he begins, slowly, “I was kind of a live wire, coming out of my teens with a lot of trauma. I was pretty driven to prove everyone wrong— my family, small town bullies, my ex-boyfriend— everyone who thought I was worthless.” 

“Oh, Eliot,” Quentin says, with feeling. It hurts to even hear that anyone would say that about this obviously good, lovely man, especially when he was only a boy. Quentin sets a hand on his arm, trying to be reassuring. 

“I’m okay,” Eliot says. “I know _now,_ and part of me knew then, too. Margo had also come into my life by then. She saw something in me that was stronger and truer than I’d been led to believe.”

Quentin nods. He likes her already. He doesn’t say that, because this is a first date and that would be way too weird, but yeah. 

“So anyway,” Eliot continues, licking some whipped cream off his fork—Quentin gets terribly distracted by that and looks away, rolling his eyes at himself— “Um, after the breakup that I told you about, and the near-overdose, and the rehab, and finally getting back into college at twenty…”

“Jesus,” Quentin says.

“Stay with me, I’m just setting the scene. So, after all that, I went through this kind of grand creative project of reinventing myself. Dove into the arts and the New York queer scene on a shoestring budget, lost my accent, thrift-taylored most of my own wardrobe… it was all very aesthetic, and the aesthetic was very _not_ farm-boy.”

Quentin smiles. He can just see it. “New York is really good for that kind of reinvention.”

“Indeed.” Eliot leans in toward Quentin a little bit, and his voice drops to something a little more personal. “There were things I discovered about myself that _have_ stuck with me. But it was also, just… extremely performative, pretty self-involved. Not altogether healthy. My created persona was kind of… ‘untouchable, elegant hedonist?’”

“Hmm, I think I could see that for early-twenties you, actually,” Quentin tells him, wry and affectionate. 

“It saw me through most of college. I was studying languages and arts, with the idea that I wanted to see the world, and minoring in theater. Think I could have gone in the theater direction—I did get a few parts at the height of it—but my lifestyle caught up with me and I had a drug relapse my senior year.”

Quentin rubs his hand up and down Eliot’s arm, to let him know he’s here and listening. They’re still slowly eating cake, and Eliot is opening up so much. He’s clearly grown out of the “aloof, untouchable” thing, and Quentin appreciates that. 

“So, thank Margo for getting me back into rehab and on track to graduate eventually, and _that_ was when I began real, adult therapy. Learning to focus outside of just the bubble of myself and Bambi was…” Eliot pauses, apparently searching for the words, “…honestly, a huge part of that process. That was what led me to humanitarian work. At twenty-five, I started on my masters at UC Dublin—International Humanitarian Action. I’ve been pretty settled, ever since.”

“Wow,” Quentin says. “That is… quite a coming of age process. And Margo has been your constant the whole time?”

“Since a couple months after I arrived in New York at eighteen, fresh off a Greyhound and technically homeless. I know I’ve shaped the course of her life, too, but Margo’s strong. She’s always known her own worth.”

“You adore her. I can tell.”

“Yes. I do.”

Quentin smiles. He's really happy for him. “That’s just… it’s fantastic. That you have that." He raises a hand to touch Eliot's arm, hoping he won'd mind a more personal question. "You um, don’t have to answer this, of course, but do you still go to meetings?”

“Yes.” Eliot stretches and sets his plate down on the coffee table. “NA meetings, when I can find them, to help keep things in perspective. And I watch my drinking pretty carefully. I like mixology, and let that become a big part of my persona back then.” He leans back on the sofa, shaking his head at the memory. “But I’ve mostly found other creative outlets, now. My father was an alcoholic, and I’ve already experienced addiction, so I’m pretty conscious of that.”

He looks over at Quentin, checking in but also… a bit conspiratorial? ”Also quit smoking, few years ago. I still miss it.”

“So do I,” Quentin says. He sets down his plate and lets his hand settle on Eliot’s knee. “I don’t think that goes away, to be honest.”

In the moments of silence that follow, the energy in the room seems to shift around them. It’s dark outside now, but they’re illuminated by the dim corner lamp and the candle; Quentin notices how dramatic it feels, and how warm he feels with his hand on Eliot’s knee. He takes a breath to steady himself, and looks at Eliot with a knowing little “well, then” smile, a half-question.

Eliot leans forward and pivots smoothly in his spot to face Quentin, drawing his knee around toward the back of the sofa and taking Quentin’s hand along with it. As Quentin tries to mirror the movement, he feels Eliot’s hand come up to settle on his shoulder, then curve inward toward his neck. He pulls in a tiny, involuntary breath at the feeling of Eliot’s warm fingers as they brush past the collar of his shirt and skim over his bare skin. 

Eliot catches his eyes. His gaze is heated, but gentle—a banked fire. He raises his eyebrows in a question. 

Quentin feels shy, suddenly. He glances down, breathing, but then gathers his courage and reaches for Eliot, leaning in to kiss him. 

It feels like falling; like a kite being caught by the wind; like a stream joining a river. Quentin lets himself be drawn in to Eliot’s undeniable gravity. The kiss is sweet and careful for only moments before they’re simply pulled together, Eliot’s hand sliding around to the nape of Quentin's neck as Quentin reaches his fingertips into his hair. 

His lips are soft and warm, and Quentin wants to kiss them for ages. He shivers as Eliot’s tongue teases the seam of his mouth, and opens happily to let him in. This is exactly what he wants: the heady intimacy of slow, deep kissing, tender and generous.

Quentin… _oh,_ he really, really likes Eliot. He can taste him, now, can smell his skin, like soft musk and warming spices. He feels delighted, giddy, and he hums gently into the kiss. Eliot’s fingers begin to tighten slightly in the hair at the top of Quentin’s neck, and all of a sudden there’s something he _very much_ wants to do. He almost doesn’t—it’s particularly forward, even for him—but he has a feeling, somehow, that it will be okay. And really, if Eliot wants to know what Quentin is like, this will give him a _much_ better idea than anything he could _say_. 

Quentin takes a breath, for nerve, and shifts his weight just enough to swing himself up and over Eliot’s lap. 

Eliot, thank god, is startled for about half a second, laughs momentarily against Quentin’s mouth, and is completely on board. He kisses him deeply in response, his hand still on Quentin’s nape and the other settling on his hip. Quentin lets his head be tilted gently by Eliot’s large, warm hand— _perfect—_ and melts back into the kiss.

This is… this is… _god,_ it’s wonderful. It’s nearly hypnotic, the soft slide of Eliot’s lips, his beard, the touch of his tongue. Without meaning to, Quentin drifts briefly back to the memory of the first time he did this, at twenty-one years old, letting himself kiss and be kissed by a beautiful man. He loves how much he’s changed, how much the world has changed, how he no longer has any shame at all about wanting this, about absolutely loving it.

Eliot bites softly at Quentin’s bottom lip and the sensation brings him fully back to the present with a tiny gasp. His hand is in Eliot’s thick curls, and the other curved around his shoulder. Quentin kisses him more deeply, more intensely, thinking _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot._

Eliot responds with a shudder, chest expanding with a sudden breath. He hums as Quentin kisses him, deep and rumbling, and the next thing Quentin knows, Eliot has slid away from his lips, tilted his head back, and is _kissing his neck._ Quentin feels Eliot trace below the line of his jaw and mouth the sensitive skin beneath his ear, and he gasps lightly and laughs as he feels his body responding.

There is a part of Quentin that would absolutely _love_ to be untying the fancy knot of Eliot’s necktie right now, kissing his way down his chest and then sliding down to his knees… but he does not. Quentin was not lying when he said he’d experienced romance before. Enough to know that a quickie followed by a discreet getaway is not an ideal first time with a new lover. Not for him. Not with someone he likes as much as Eliot. He slides the fingers of his free hand into Eliot’s hair as well, taking his head in both hands, and kisses him again, then pulls back to look at him.

“Eliot,” he says, “I’m sorry to say this, but I can’t stay late. As much as I’d like to.”

Quentin watches as Eliot looks into his eyes, desire making way for tenderness in an instant. He leans his forehead against Quentin’s. 

“It’s okay,” Eliot says, quiet, his eyes closed again, “I understand.” He nuzzles his nose against Quentin’s and holds him there, waiting.

“And, I should also tell you, if we were to go to bed… I’d want to take my time.”

Eliot softly gasps and kisses Quentin again, moaning as he pulls him in. He rubs his hands up and down Quentin’s back, and then cups his face in his hands, fingertips tracing tenderly along his jaw.

“Any idea where we might find that kind of time?” Eliot murmurs.

“Hmm…” Quentin playfully considers while he leans in and kisses Eliot again, and gently bites his lip. “Would you like to come see my house?” Another kiss, slower, and he draws back only enough to ask against Eliot’s lips, “Maybe tomorrow afternoon?”

He can feel Eliot smiling against his mouth. “I’d love to.” Eliot kisses him, briefly. “Do you have to go just yet?”

“No,” Quentin sighs with relief, “not just yet.” 

It feels like they just melt into each other after that, warm and liquid, giddy with discovery and anticipation as they neck like teenagers on Eliot’s tiny sofa. They manage to keep it chaste, but Quentin is very aware that he is _straddling the man’s lap._ He knows how close their hips are, and imagines what it would feel like to press up against him, from chest to hips, and the many places that could lead. Finally, Quentin kisses Eliot deeply and thoroughly, and then gently and sweetly, and then pulls away before his imagination can run away with him. 

Eliot, who is excellent at reading him, it seems, grins at him and takes his hands. “Do you need help?”

“I can… probably…” Quentin says, as he attempts to swing gracefully off of Eliot’s lap. He slips a little and Eliot catches him by the hips and steadies him as he manages to avoid falling into the coffee table. “Thank you,” he tells him, laughing a little as he finds his feet. “That was one of my better efforts.” 

Eliot grins fondly at him. “Nine out of ten,” he says, then rises gracefully from the sofa to stand before Quentin, once again just… so very tall. 

“Oh, um,” Quentin remembers, coming back to himself. “Do you have that fabric that we put in your basket? I think I’m going to take everything over there in the morning.” 

Eliot does, of course, and lends him the basket to carry it in. They make a plan to meet at one o’clock tomorrow, partway up the hill near some offices above the water tank, to walk to Quentin’s house.

“I’ll bring the rest of the cake,” Eliot promises. He might possibly be perfect.

Quentin puts his jacket back on and tucks his notebook into the basket. “I may have to bring this back,” he says, “to explain to you at length the errors in your calculations.”

Eliot laughs and reaches out to take Quentin by the hips again, this time pulling him in, right up against him. “Oh Dr. Coldwater, I hope you will,” he says, playful and sexy, smiling down at him. “My calculations could certainly use correcting."

Quentin cracks up, and he’s sure he’s also blushing. 

“Eliot, thank you,” he smiles at him and reaches for his shoulders. “Dinner was wonderful.”

“I’m so glad,” Eliot circles his arms around Quentin’s waist, “thank _you.”_ He leans down to kiss him again, firm and full and sweet, like he means it. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Quentin says, when they finally part. He’s happy and a bit dazed and still warm from the kiss.

“One o’clock, with cake,” Eliot assures him with a smile. “Goodnight, Quentin.”

Eliot holds the door for him as he makes his way outside with his basket. The cool night air washes over Quentin’s hands and face as he turns to wave goodnight to Eliot in the doorway. He’s grateful when the man steps inside and closes the door, because Quentin wasn’t sure how he was going to stop looking at him. He shakes his head at himself as he makes his way back to the road. He has so much to tell Ted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been informed that, Quentin having walked up that road just now rather than doing what he, ahem, _really_ wanted to do, I owe everyone whiskey shots. That's fair, honestly-- I should probably change the tags! Thank you all for your patience, i hope you enjoyed their date, and I promise that the next chapter will involve no cockblocking whatsoever.
> 
> Special thanks here to TrillianSwan, who helped me narrow down Eliot's voice and sense of humor when this chapter was in early drafts, and who brought me the line about the tablecloth, which I still love.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s a strange morning for Eliot, steeped in anticipation while trying to keep things in perspective. He left most of the dishes last night, so he washes them up now, with the kitchen window open to let in the cool, fresh air. He’d spoken to Margo last night, in a minor meltdown that feels somewhat silly now, by the light of day. 

It was just that... well... he’d found himself a bit alarmed by his feelings. Liking Quentin so much, so soon—a much more than normal amount, really—it isn’t his usual pattern. 

There's also the matter of the kissing. 

Eliot couldn’t even manage to tell Margo about this part—it really feels incredibly embarrassing to put into words. But the truth is, the way Quentin kisses him... he’s never been kissed like that before. It makes him feel adored, and _seen,_ and like it’s enough—like _he’s_ enough. Quentin kisses Eliot like there’s nothing he’d like better in the world, and it feels momentous to Eliot, but also... so easy. 

Quentin is just... ridiculously cute, honestly. And he’s good, and he’s brave... Eliot feels like he’s half in love already, after _one day,_ which had briefly been more than a little overwhelming. He’d expected Margo to tell him to be a grown-up and not get attached. But, well. That hadn’t happened. At all.

Margo must have heard something, as Eliot waxed melodramatic about the details of his deeply unsettling _feelings emergency._ Something that made her think this situation was special. Against all expectations, she’d advised him to enjoy Quentin and his cute enthusiasm and his oh-so-magnetic dimples, and “if you fall in love, you fall the fuck in love.” 

Eliot had reminded Margo that he was only in Kampala for a month. It was then that his dearest, closest, most beloved and trusted friend had pointed out that people travel and things can change, and said, “Don’t shoot yourself in the dick because this is new and you’re scared.” 

When he thanked her for that lovely image, Margo told him he was fucking welcome, and then said, none too kindly, “Eliot, you deserve good things.”

So... 

Everything looks much more rosy and less dire now, by the light of day, thank god. Not every bit of trepidation has left him, but Eliot is not in a panic, and is pleased to try to live in the moment because the moment does feel remarkably good.

Around brunchtime he steps out to grab a banana, a hard-boiled egg, a scone and some coffee from the remains of the continental breakfast situation in the main guest house lobby, then takes them back with him to pick out an outfit. He trims his beard, files his nails, showers and moisturizes, brushes his teeth and carefully does his hair. Finally, Eliot gets dressed in taupe slacks and a lightweight white cotton shirt with a subtle stripe in the weave. He takes a light jacket and the carefully wrapped two-thirds of the sticky, fruity cake and sets out on foot. 

By the time Eliot is walking up Mulago Hill Road, following its broad curve around to the west, he’s happy in the warm sun and just very eager to see Quentin again. There are people on the lower stretch of the road this time of day, foot traffic and bicycles on the narrow sidewalks and cars and bodas on the road as Eliot passes a laboratory, a hostel, some apartments, plots of plantains. Clinics and university buildings line both sides of the road as it curves northward, but once he’s near the top and headed east again the sidewalks are gone, replaced by gulleys, with thick vegetation closing in on the sides of the narrow, unpaved road. 

The offices they chose as a meeting place sort of spring up on the north side of the road, and look like they’re fighting a losing battle with vines and mahogany trees. As Eliot gets closer, he spots Quentin getting up from where he’s sitting halfway up a flight of metal outdoor stairs. He has his hair down today, soft-looking and just skimming his shoulders, and is wearing a light button-front shirt open over a tee shirt and shorts. He starts coming quickly down the stairs toward Eliot, and as Eliot gets closer he can see that Quentin is beaming as much as he is. 

When they finally meet, Eliot’s hands are full and they’re standing right in front of this odd set of offices with open blinds on the windows. Eliot doesn’t know quite what to do with himself, but Quentin manages to reach past the cake to give him a brief, friendly hug, then sets a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m so happy to see you,” Quentin tells him, with twinkly eyes and a warm, pleased grin with dimples. 

“And I, you,” Eliot tells him. “Although,” he adds more quietly, grinning back at him, “not kissing you ‘hello’ is requiring every ounce of my willpower.”

“That’s uh... definitely a struggle we share.” Quentin gestures up the road. “My house is up this way, it’s not too far. Come on,” he adds wryly, “I believe in us.”

It’s probably about another half mile that they walk along the narrow red dirt road through bushy trees and flowering vines that have overgrown old roadside fences, past buildings obscured and set back from the road. Eliot sees more little brown vervet monkeys chasing around in the trees, hears the ticking of insects and the whistles of unseen birds. He knows he’s barely more than a stone’s throw from both a major university hospital and the teeming, crowded neighborhoods of a capitol city. Quentin has even been telling him, as they walk, about his morning with the residents of the tuberculosis ward, and how they liked their gifts and supplies. Yet despite all that, Eliot feels, up here on this hill with Quentin, like he’s in a softer version of Africa, like something out of a story.

Finally, Quentin leads them away from the road and onto a narrow path between trees and bushes and palms, a bit further up the rise of the hill. There’s a little house set back in there that wasn’t visible from the road, with a small garden to one side. The front door and windows face south, down the hill. 

“This is my place,” Quentin tells him. “There are a couple of fruit trees, fig and mango, plantains over there, and my garden—not a lot of light, but I manage a few things...” He seems to be nervous, rambling a bit, and Eliot sets a hand on his shoulder to try to calm him as he lets them in, and feels him relax slightly. “Come on in,” Quentin tells him, “let me take your jacket and the cake.” 

Eliot stoops to step into a small, cozy living room, but he doesn’t take the time just yet to take in the details—there’s a table, that’s all he needs. He sets his folded jacket and the plate of foil-wrapped cake on the coffee table and reaches for Quentin’s hand as he follows him into the room. Quentin takes it, squeezing it steadily like he just needs to hold on, and closes the door behind them. 

It happens all at once, then: the door clicks, Eliot takes a breath, Quentin tugs gently on his hand. It takes each of them half a step to be in the other’s arms, and the momentum of that step has them slowly spinning as Quentin reaches up and Eliot reaches down to gather him up in his arms and kiss him. 

The relief is amazing. He’s been anticipating this kiss, and finally pressing his mouth to Quentin’s... it’s even better than he imagined, his true senses so much richer than even the very recent memory. Quentin’s warm, soft lips open for Eliot as he pushes his hand up into his silky hair and holds him tight against him. It’s an overwhelming, spectacular feeling, and they’re both a little breathless when they finally break apart.

“Mmm,” Quentin keeps an arm wrapped around Eliot’s waist, “wow that’s... better.”

Eliot laughs. Quentin seems to just live in this place of emotional earnestness that continues to surprise him. It’s very appealing, even though trying to meet him there, even part-way, feels like stripping bare and exposing himself to the elements. He hums his agreement and pulls Quentin in to just hold him for a moment. 

“Is it okay to do this?” It’s a different kind of intimacy, holding someone, with your heart beating like a drum in your chest. Eliot doesn’t know how to say that he feels knocked over by affection and relief. He doubts that he should. But Quentin wraps his other arm around Eliot’s waist, too, and just relaxes into him, the side of his face tucked against his neck.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, it is.”

When Eliot loosens his arms Quentin takes his hand again and leads him further into the room. It’s cozy. The front window curtains are open, with daylight spilling across a patterned rug and a small sofa that sits against the opposite wall, but the dark ocher of the walls and warm tones of the upholstered furniture and throws will definitely make the room feel small, soft, and safe when the light dims.

“I’ll, um, I’ll give you a tour?” 

Eliot curls his fingers into Quentin’s hand and nods.

“Living room, obviously. Music and books...” He’s already leading them counterclockwise out of the room. Eliot ducks through an arch. “Eating nook, such as it is.” Quentin points to the right, to a small table, mostly covered with fruit, with bench seats and a tiny window at the end, like an oddly-placed restaurant booth. Eliot wonders whether his legs would fit under the table.

They turn and Quentin draws him into what is obviously the kitchen. Eliot notes a short refrigerator with a curved metal door that looks circa 1960s. Quentin gestures to a door beside the back window and sink. “That leads to the garden, around that way to the side, and I built a little patio, which I can show you...” He seems to lose his train of thought as Eliot comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, steps in and lets his breath brush his ear. Quentin’s breath seems to catch in his chest, then he lets it go and relaxes back against Eliot, in the circle of his arms, lets his head fall back against his shoulder.

Holding him feels _so nice_. Solid. 

“Do you like it?” Quentin asks. He turns around in the circle of his arms and puts his hands flat against the top of Eliot’s chest. Eliot grins at him. He nods and ducks to brush his nose down alongside Quentin’s, closes his eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, and Quentin rises up on his toes to kiss him again. 

Eliot feels like his skin is tingling all over. He kisses Quentin tenderly, with all of the affection that he’s already feeling, but that he knows shouldn’t be put into words. If Quentin is startled by Eliot’s gentleness, he doesn’t show it. He kisses back sweetly, languid and warm, and rubs his thumb gently over the shell of his ear as his fingers rest in Eliot’s curls against his head. 

“Eliot,” Quentin finally says, lightly breaking the kiss, “can I show you the bedroom?” 

Eliot opens his eyes. Quentin’s gaze is soft but sure. He’s beautiful. 

“Please.”

#

Quentin takes Eliot silently by the hand and they wind their way back through the house, kissing slowly as they go, under another arch, and finally into the bedroom, where Eliot has a brief impression of wooden furniture and African cloth covering two windows and a double-bed before Quentin is once again in his arms. 

This suits him beautifully; it’s exactly what he wants, and there’s no real reason to hide that, now. Quentin is so sweet, and eager, and has just pulled him into his bedroom. Now that they’re in private, behind locked doors with all of the afternoon and evening stretching before them, Eliot finally feels the tension he’s been holding begin to unspool. He’s bent down and kissing Quentin, slow and very warm, and he threads one hand up into his silky hair at the back of his head and rubs the other as far down his back as he can reach. 

Eliot’s mind flashes, with a tender sort of regret, to his young former self who would never have done this: gone happily to another man’s bed, _sober,_ in the middle of the afternoon. He had many hazy, half-remembered first-times back then, mostly in the dim early hours after wild parties. But not now. This is so much better—to be fully present, with every detail vivid and real. The light in Quentin’s room is warm and unearthly, sunlight hitting the south windows and turning the red and blue and green patterns of the fabric into bright jewels, and here in his arms is this beautiful, good man who wants him, and it’s perfect. 

Quentin responds to the tight hold of Eliot’s arms by rising even further up on his toes and pressing his body right up against Eliot’s, moaning softly as they kiss and reaching around his neck. If it’s possible for someone to _fall upward,_ that is what Quentin does, and Eliot gets the sense that Quentin just wants to _climb_ him. The thought is flattering, and also _hot._

It’s a short distance to go, but Eliot was a theater kid once, and he believes in dramatic gestures. He stoops down to get his arms around Quentin’s hips, then stands and picks him up. Quentin barks out a delighted laugh and kisses him with even more fervor, tightening his thighs around Eliot’s hips as Eliot holds him tight and kisses him back, drawing out the few steps to the bed. 

When he finally sets Quentin down on the bed’s edge, Eliot carefully sinks down to his knees in front of him. He runs his hands smoothly down Quentin’s thighs as they continue to kiss, finally wraps them around those very sexy muscular calves, and lets his fingertips settle on Quentin’s ankles. 

“May I?” he asks, and at Quentin’s nod he slides his boat shoes off and leaves them on the floor.

Quentin is looking at him like he can barely believe this, but also with very frank desire _. “Eliot,”_ he breathes, sliding in closer to Eliot and leaning forward to meet his lips again.

Eliot ducks his head to suck on his throat, and Quentin softly gasps and catches himself against the bed with one hand. Encouraged, Eliot kisses his way down Quentin’s neck, nosing beneath his shirt to mouth at his collarbone. Quentin is gently moaning and squirming, a little giggle... he’s so sensitive— _god_ , after three years, Eliot guesses he would be—but he wonders how much he’s also just _like that._

“Can I, um.” Quentin reaches for the top button of Eliot’s shirt. 

“Of course. Want me to help?”

“No, please,” Quentin kisses him, briefly, “let me.”

Eliot sets his hands on Quentin’s thighs as Quentin unbuttons his shirt, one button at a time, and kisses his way down his neck and chest as he goes. It feels good: warm, wet little sparks of sensation, and Eliot feels giddy. Quentin kisses beneath his jaw as he slides his shirt open and slips it over his shoulders and down his arms, and Eliot lifts his hands free, one at a time, and brings them to Quentin’s hips. 

He watches Quentin lean back to look at him, his gaze gliding over Eliot’s stomach and chest, his shoulders and arms. 

“You’re beautiful.” 

Eliot inclines his head, possibly blushes a bit. Something about Quentin makes him want to try to accept a compliment like that, rather than lighten it with a joke, deflect it, flirtatiously lob it back... He lets it set for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Can I get yours?”

With a nod, Quentin helps Eliot get him out of his shirts. He has a fantastic shape, compact and lightly muscular. He’s fairly broad across his shoulders, with a nicely furry chest and forearms; together with his large hands, with their square palms and sturdy fingers, he’s just... so appealingly masculine, in a way that Eliot likes, in a way that he _wants._

His fingers end up just... hovering, slightly, over Quentin’s stomach. Maybe it’s irrational, but Eliot feels a desire to just take extra care, with Quentin. “Can I touch you?” he asks.

“Yes, _please.”_

He lets himself feel him, then, gliding his fingertips reverently over his skin, and when Quentin reaches for Eliot’s jaw it feels like they’re just drawn together, once more, by something mysterious, stronger than the weight of their own desire. Quentin presses forward into Eliot as Eliot pulls him in and fits his hips tight into the V of Quentin’s legs. Eliot can feel him there, hard through his trousers, exciting and hot, and the skin to skin press of their chests is just a glorious feeling. They slide their hands over each other’s backs and up into each other’s hair and desperately kiss, Eliot still kneeling, like a supplicant, against the side of Quentin’s bed _._

They do manage to make their way up onto the bed, eventually, and stop kissing long enough to get Eliot out of his shoes, and then both of them out of everything else. The patterned bedspread gets pushed out of the way as they wrap themselves up in the sheets. 

Quentin is _lovely_. His skin is soft and very warm, his scent like wood and grasses and honey. Eliot is thrilled to be able to touch him, to feel him all over. 

Eliot slides his hand slowly down the length of Quentin’s body as they kiss. He feels his shoulder, then the swell of his chest; his ribs, the soft dip of his stomach; the hard curl of his hip, and his soft, smooth upper thigh, followed by the muscle and furriness of his thighs and legs. He can’t reach his lower legs and feet with his hand, so he curls his own leg up and wraps it around Quentin’s, rubbing his foot against his arch, just for the satisfaction of having touched him from his head to his toes. 

Quentin is kissing his neck, his mouth wet and warm and his lips strong, just behind Eliot’s jaw. It’s a delicious feeling, sparking arousal through him as Eliot’s muscles tense and stretch. The feeling of Quentin’s body curled around him, half on top of him, is exquisite. 

Fitting his hands around Quentin’s hips, Eliot shifts him sideways and slightly down, right into place between his legs where he can nestle their cocks together where they’re both hot and hard. With one long leg still wrapped around Quentin’s, he starts to move. Quentin catches on instantly, and makes it abundantly clear that he wants this too by pinning Eliot’s arms down beside his shoulders as he kisses his neck and moves over him, sliding their cocks together as his hips begin to roll _._

It feels amazing: just so, so good... hot and shivery and almost unbearably sexy. Someone is leaking between them, making everything slick; Eliot thinks it might be both of them. 

Quentin surges back up Eliot’s body to kiss him again and they lose that perfect positioning of their hips, but being held down to the mattress and kissed by Quentin is marvelous in and of itself. He’s so cute, and so hot, and Eliot is usually pretty dominant in bed but this is a delight. He would love to get his mouth around Quentin’s hard, lovely cock, but even more than that he wants to know what Quentin wants. He breaks the kiss and catches his eyes.

“Sweetheart,” he says, and Quentin’s eyes go soft, “what do you want? I’d love to blow you, or...” He reaches down between them and wraps his hand around Quentin, gently rubs his thumb over his glans. Quentin gasps slightly and Eliot is distracted by how incredibly nice he feels. He keeps his hand on his cock a little longer, just feeling the softness of his skin and the shape of him—not very long but slightly thick, with a gentle curve, a delightful handful—then summons the willpower to move it to Quentin’s hip. 

“Distracting,” he says, with a smile, and Quentin grins. “So. How can I make you feel good? I’m very flexible...” he leans up to kiss Quentin’s dimples, and his soft, wide smile, “versatile...” he clarifies, and kisses him again, “open-minded and extremely into you...” Quentin chuckles and begins to blush as Eliot noses his mouth back within reach and kisses him again. “Did i mention I’d love to blow you? At least for a bit?” 

Quentin, who has recently been kissing the hell out of Eliot and is naked on top of him, pauses, suddenly shy. He ducks his head and closes his eyes, apparently taking a deep breath to steel himself to say something that will require bravery. Eliot can’t imagine what.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Quentin says quietly, still looking down, but then he takes another deep breath and looks up into Eliot’s eyes. His eyes are just a beautiful, warm walnut brown, and he looks nervous, but he says, “but I was hoping that you might also want to finger me, and... um. And maybe fuck me?” His voice drops to nearly a whisper and he looks down again. “I... you know. Got ready for that. Um, so. If you wanted.”

Eliot’s brain very briefly short outs. Quentin is _prepared._ He thought about what he wanted, and went to special effort ahead of time, which is... well, it’s not remotely unusual for men who like to bottom, but they haven’t discussed this _at all,_ which means that Quentin really was hoping. He was _hoping_ for this, from Eliot, and now Eliot really, really wants to give it to him.

He reaches out with his fingers and tips his chin back up. “Quentin, I’d love that.” He kisses him as sweetly and tenderly as he can. “Did you guess, that I mostly like to top?”

Quentin huffs a small laugh. “No. Just... you know, wishful thinking.” He tucks his hair behind his ear, and Eliot wishes that he’d done it, instead. “Did you guess that I’m mostly a huge bottom?” 

Eliot just laughs, and leans his forehead against Quentin’s. He shakes his head _no._ After a moment he adds, quiet, “What fabulous luck, though.”

Eliot kisses Quentin every bit as much as Quentin wants, then takes his hard, pretty cock into his mouth and gives him his fingers one at a time and it’s _wonderful._ Quentin feels and tastes amazing. He’s sensitive and responsive, gasping and moaning and pressing back onto Eliot’s hand. He’s shy and he’s brave and he’s incredibly hot. When Eliot asks, not wanting to stop _at all,_ if he can make him come like this and _then_ fuck him, Quentin lets out a choked-off little sob and says, “oh god, yes, _please,”_ like he can’t believe it. 

Eliot makes Quentin come stretched out on his back, one hand holding on to the bars of his headboard and the other settled gently in Eliot’s hair behind his ear, here on his bed behind the locked doors and drawn curtains of his little African house. He makes him come with his long fingers rubbing, careful and sure, over his very sensitive prostate deep inside; with his lips hot and slippery around his base and the thick head of his cock tucked into his throat. Eliot moans deep in his chest and takes in everything Quentin gives him, adoring every shudder, every gasp, every drop.

It’s very unsurprising, honestly, as he crawls up the bed to wrap himself around Quentin, to find that Quentin wants—seems to need—to be kissed. Quentin kisses Eliot with what feels like incredible relief, and then presses him back into the bed and kisses his way down his body, with special detours at his nipples and hip bones. 

“God, you’re so sexy,” he says, then nuzzles up between Eliot’s thighs and sinks his lips down onto his cock. 

He’s good at this, he’s _very_ good at this. It feels absolutely divine: the pressure and the suction and the perfect touch of Quentin’s tongue in the hot, wet heat of his mouth. Eliot worries briefly that he might come, and embarrassingly soon, but he needn’t have been concerned because Quentin is _very good at this,_ and knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Oh god, Quentin,” Eliot moans. Not that he needs the encouragement—he very clearly does not—but Eliot feels like this deserves to be appreciated out loud. “Baby, _oh..._ that’s so good.”

Quentin groans around Eliot’s cock and takes him all the way to the base, and Eliot sees stars behind his eyelids. What did... what did... Eliot does not believe in karma, but seriously, what the _oh holy fuck_ did he _do_ to deserve this? Quentin brings him almost, but not quite, to the edge of orgasm, and slowly backs off. 

“Um,” he looks up at Eliot with his mouth red and swollen and his pupils huge; he looks wrecked and it’s one of the hottest things Eliot’s ever seen. “Can we still,” he asks, breathing heavily, “I mean, if you want to?”

There is absolutely nothing in the world that Eliot wants more than to be inside Quentin right now. He grins and jerks his chin at him, runs his nails gently over his shoulders. “Yes, fuck, come up here, please.”

Quentin is up the bed in a flash, and laughs and gasps with delight when Eliot rolls him over and frames him from above—exactly the response Eliot was hoping for. He kisses him deep and sweet with his fingers tightened in his hair, moving him where he wants him, Quentin moaning happily and melting into the kiss. 

With Quentin’s permission, Eliot works him the rest of the way open with his fingers while they kiss, tender and slow. By the time he’s ready, Quentin is hard again, and once again writhing with pleasure on Eliot’s hand.

It’s a quick job to retrieve a condom from his trouser pocket, some of Quentin’s very good lube, get himself ready in between sucking on Quentin’s nipples to make him laugh and squirm and arch up off the bed. 

Eliot climbs back up over Quentin and leans down to kiss him. He bites his bottom lip gently and then holds it between his lips. “Sweetheart,” he says, the endearment feeling soft and natural in his mouth, like water, “how do you want it? Should I turn you over? Do you want to ride?” 

Quentin seems to think about it, so Eliot kisses him again. He’s not going to hover over the man’s lips and _not_ kiss him. 

Eliot feels Quentin smooth his hands past his ribs and around his back, then pull him down the rest of the way on top of him. Quentin kisses him passionately, wraps a leg around his thigh, takes one of Eliot’s hands and intertwines their fingers and stretches their joined hands up over their heads. 

Eliot has a revelation that makes him feel like maybe he’s not such a quick study, after all. Based on everything that he knows about Quentin... 

“Quentin,” he asks, pulling very slightly away from his lips, “Do you like it like _this?_ ”

“Uh huh.”

“Mmmmm,” Eliot hums, and kisses Quentin again to cover the pounding of his heart in his chest. 

It’s so unusual, missionary position for a first time with someone, but to Eliot’s surprise he’s _so into it._ Honestly, he wants Quentin, he wants _this._ But god, it’s so _intimate,_ and Eliot resolves to try to keep his feelings from overwhelming him while he focuses on making Quentin feel good.

He kisses his neck and around the shell of his ear, tugs lightly on his hair, whispers, “Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Now,” Quentin’s voice is thick and raspy. “Eliot... I’m ready now.” 

Quentin’s soft hair is spread out around his head on the mattress below him; one arm is around Eliot, his hand wrapped around his shoulder blade. He’s warm and solid and sexy, and he watches with clear, beautiful brown eyes as Eliot pushes carefully, gradually inside him. 

The feeling of it, of _Quentin_ , strong and solid beneath him and hot and soft all around him... it’s amazing. Eliot is no virgin, but he feels like all of his nerves have woken up, like he must be glowing. A little overwhelmed, he lets his forehead drop and rest against Quentin’s for a moment while he breathes. Quentin just holds him, gives him a moment, then brushes against his nose and reaches his mouth up to kiss him. 

Eliot gathers himself. He was right, he was right—with their heights, this is perfect. He squeezes Quentin’s fingers in his and presses their joined hands into the mattress above them and starts to move. 

Quentin is... _god._ He's wonderful. He’s a very active lover, rolling his hips up against Eliot, kissing him, touching him... Eliot gives him everything he’s got. They tangle their legs together, their tongues, kiss and stretch and press into the bed as Eliot sinks into Quentin and Quentin rises up to meet him. 

Time must be stretching out around them, as the sun sinks lower and the colored light lengthens across the room, pouring over them and the bed that holds them, but it feels like there’s only this: these perfect moments, the gorgeous present. Eliot holds Quentin tight and feels the solid strength of his body; he moves against him and inside him, makes him pant and gasp and moan. He hears his name fall from Quentin’s lips and it sounds like a benediction. 

Quentin presses his fingers into Eliot’s back as Eliot gets his legs under him, and Quentin’s gasp when he gets the angle just right is _everything._ It’s startling how he urges him on, how hard he wants it, but _dear god,_ Eliot wants it too, and when he finally wraps his hand around Quentin's cock, his own climax rushing toward him like a sudden thunderstorm, he wonders why it has never, ever been like this, and how he could think such a crazy thought, and then he loses himself in the moment as Quentin clenches tight around him and shouts and comes hot and wild over his hand, and the thundercloud breaks and Eliot is right there with him, holding him with all his strength as his body draws tight and lets go in torrents of pleasure and emotion that leave him with no choice but to cling to Quentin and kiss him... hold him... _kiss him_ as he rides out the end of the storm. 

#

It takes some time, afterward, for them both to remember to relax the hold of their arms and gently pull apart, laughing and kissing as they catch their breath and do a bit of cleaning up. Quentin disappears briefly and returns with a large glass of water, because he’s a genius, and the cake and two forks. They lay around in bed with it, Eliot trying to feed Quentin bites with extra fruit. While he loves the absurd decadence of this, it feels almost wicked, eating cake in bed— Eliot smiles at the delightful irony of _that_ being the part of the afternoon that bothers his conscience. Quentin is going to change the sheets anyway, he promises it’s okay; this is what he wants so it’s what they do. Eliot kisses his eyelashes, kisses his nose, kisses the sugar off his lips.

“Do you have other plans for the rest of the day?” Quentin eventually asks, curled up in bed with his head on Eliot’s shoulder and his arm around his waist. Eliot brushed as many crumbs as he could into his hand and dropped them into the wastebasket before pulling Quentin into this cuddle. He’s not an animal.

“If I did they’d be cancelled.” He runs his hand through Quentin’s hair and kisses his forehead because he can. 

“Stay for supper? Maybe for a while after? I get good sunsets.”

“Mhmm,” Eliot agrees. “I knew I liked it here.”

He squeezes a little tighter where he has his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, and lets himself drift off to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s still light out when they wake up from their post-sex cat nap, so they couldn’t have been asleep for very long. Quentin is still wrapped around Eliot, his head resting on his upper chest. Eliot tips his chin down to smell his hair and enjoys the warmth and weight and _thereness_ of Quentin. Here he is, in his bed in his hidden little house in the middle of Uganda, of all places. Eliot is a humanist with a tiny existentialist streak, but Quentin feels like a little bit of a miracle. 

He tries to shake his head to clear the romantic nonsense that he’s thinking, but ends up just smiling instead because this beautiful man with whom Eliot just had very life-affirming sex is reaching up to his own mouth to brush away his hair, and then rubbing his hand up and down Eliot’s ribs and over his chest. Quentin hums and smiles and turns his smile downward to kiss Eliot’s breastbone before settling back in his spot. 

“It’s so nice here,” Eliot points out, his voice soft and lazy with sleep, “your home.” It’s _so_ strange to think that he’s the first bedmate that Quentin’s had, here. “You’ve lived here for three years?”

“Bit over, but yeah.” Eliot feels Quentin just squeeze his chest a little tighter and relax more into him.

“All on your own...” He brings a hand up to run his fingers through Quentin’s honey-brown hair. “That’s an unusual move to make, in one’s twenties.”

Quentin hums thoughtfully and turns his face down against Eliot’s chest. “Nope,” he says, “not my twenties. ‘M older than I look. Just have a baby face.”

Oh, well that’s a surprise, but not a bad one. They must be more of-an-age than Eliot thought. “Will you still tell me why, eventually? I’m not saying I want to leave this bed, but I am curious how I had the good luck to find _you_ in Kampala.”

“I’ll tell you, but we will have to leave the bed,” Quentin looks up at him and quirks his eyebrow, “at least temporarily. Come on out to the garden with me. We can talk while I gather some things for supper.”

They get dressed, more or less, Quentin in his shorts and short-sleeved shirt. Eliot slips into his trousers and rolls the pant legs up to try to match Quentin's level of casualness, leaving the front of his shirt open like some kind of bohemian. He remembers his hair and his fingers rise to it automatically—"Oh lord," he says, "this must be insane." 

Quentin steps right up to him so that their chests brush and reaches his own hands up into Eliot's unruly curls.

"It's very cute. I like it." He smiles and rises up on his toes to give him a quick kiss. "But if you'd feel better with a mirror, the bathroom's right over there."

He does take a few minutes, washing his face and arranging his curls and deciding on how many buttons feel right buttoned on his shirt for this _pants rolled up, no shoes, post-(mid?)-sex in a tiny hidden house on a hill in Africa_ look that he has going on—the answer is three. 

Quentin takes Eliot outside to his garden, a square plot off to the side of the house that is almost definitely based on the garden allotments in English cities. It reminds Eliot, as so many things do, of the colonial past that’s colored all of life in Uganda. Quentin's garden is bushy with greens, including collards that seem to have grown into miniature trees. He has squash, and carrots and onions in the ground, and several varieties of beans on trellises. Watching him poke around in the greenery, carefully gathering things into a bowl, is a charming experience; Eliot is filled with fondness for Quentin and his gentle, careful attention.

"I don't usually keep meat in the house," Quentin tells him, selecting speckled pods of beans, "but I have some good fish in the icebox, might be nice over vegetables? Maybe couscous or noodles? Or we can go with vegetarian?"

He's so cute, and Eliot's fingers are itching to tuck his hair back behind his ear. He imagines leaving his fingertips against his head and curling an arm around him, drawing him up and kissing him slowly... Eliot shakes his head. Either this is a very long, very good afterglow, or he is just... gone, on Quentin Coldwater, even more than he thought. Or, he realizes, _both._

"Either sounds good, honestly," he says, pulling himself out of the reverie, "whatever you'd like. I'm happy to help.” He waits until Quentin moves a couple of steps closer, so he can keep his voice down. “Um, so... out here in your garden—not private enough, to be affectionate?"

Quentin looks up and seems to think about it for a moment. His brow furrows and his lips press together in a tight little line, and Eliot feels an urge to kiss it all away. 

"Probably not," Quentin says with a sigh. "I've never had to think about it before, but my neighbors do wander through sometimes, or come by if they have something to share." He looks at Eliot with obvious regret. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Eliot sits down on the little stone wall that edges the back of the garden, stretching his long legs out between the plants. "Tell me about it. About you being in Kampala."

"Well," Quentin brings his bowl of vegetables and sits next to Eliot on the wall, "I like to be able to help people. I can do that really effectively here.” He looks out over the garden, into the far distance beyond the trees and down the hillside, toward most of the hospital. 

"Everyone says they’re lucky to have you here," Eliot observes. 

“Maybe, but I’m also lucky to be here.” 

There’s something behind Quentin’s words, something that Eliot can’t quite discern. Quentin reaches his fingers over Eliot's hand, on the stone wall, and squeezes briefly before letting go. He turns and looks him in the eye.

"So, I have, um, Major Depressive Disorder,” he says. 

Eliot feels an alarmed little surge of protective concern, but Quentin is pressing ahead with what he wanted to say. “Also some anxiety, which makes it worse. And, um. I take medication that helps.” _Oh, okay, that’s good_ —Eliot tries to tamp down the protectiveness as Quentin continues. “But, so, a lot of the way I live has to do with managing my mental health."

“Wow... Quentin.” Eliot takes a deep breath. “Thanks for telling me, I...” He’s torn between worry and gratitude and trying to be respectful. “Are you... it sounds like you’re all right?”

"It's... yeah, Eliot, I’m okay.” Quentin puts his hand on Eliot’s shoulder, comforting him, which seems backwards, considering. “Really. I take good care of myself, which is part of why..." he gestures around to encompass the garden and house, "all this. It’s good, for keeping me steady. The quiet, the solitude. And being able to see and talk to Ted every day, having a couple of friends nearby—I’m not really alone.” 

Eliot nods. That makes sense. “I’m really glad you’re okay.” He reaches out to brush Quentin’s hand, and finds it isn’t nearly enough. “Can we go inside where I can maybe touch you, though?”

Quentin laughs softly. “Yeah, that sounds great. Let’s go.”

They go in through the back door, and once they’re back in the kitchen Quentin sets the bowl of vegetables in the sink. He stands, looking out the back window. “I’m sorry if that was, um, too much?” 

_Oh, no._

“Don’t be sorry, please.” Eliot does brush Quentin’s hair from his face, now, and wraps his arm around him— not to kiss him, as he’d imagined a little while ago, but to reassure him. “I’ll admit that my instinct was to want to protect you, like you were being attacked by wild beasts or something...”

Quentin laughs, “Wild beasts?”

“Well, I don’t know what’s around here.” He smiles and gestures vaguely in the air in front of them. “Boars? Big spiders? Anyway...” Quentin chuckles and Eliot pulls him in a little closer and reaches to rub his thumb along his jaw, “I’ll probably have to, you know, _look at_ that reaction, later. But for now I’m grateful that you wanted to share something so personal with me. I’m glad that I get to know you better.”

Quentin looks up at Eliot and his expression turns from amused to soft and relieved. Eliot pulls him in against his chest and kisses his forehead and Quentin relaxes, like he was carrying a weight and has put it down.

“I thought maybe you’d... I don’t know? Not be okay with it?” 

Oh, Jesus. Quentin thought there was a chance that Eliot would judge him for his condition and not want to see him anymore. But he told him anyway. 

“I’m more than okay with it.” Eliot reaches for Quentin’s jaw and tips his head up to give him a sweet kiss. They stand there, kissing slowly in the kitchen, tender and sweet, until Quentin finally drops to his heels and breaks the kiss, seemingly laughing at himself. 

“All right,” Quentin says, his hand flat against Eliot's chest. “Um, supper. We should make supper.” 

Eliot washes the vegetables at the little sink, looking out the back window into the thick greenery, while Quentin sautées onions and makes some kind of red, aromatic broth for the couscous. He still doesn’t quite understand why Quentin would choose to stay somewhere where he couldn’t even date, but he realizes it isn’t _really_ any of his business. Quentin is choosing to let Eliot into his life _now,_ and the things he’s coming to learn about him are revealing a complex man who has decided to live a simple life. Well, simple in some ways.

“What is it,” he asks, “about the hospital here, that makes it good for you?” 

“Well,” Quentin has begun cooking vegetables in the same pan that he did the onions in, earlier, “there are a lot of things. Um, public funding is nice.” 

This gets a laugh out of Eliot. “Really?”

“I mean, a lot of the programs are pretty strapped, which—okay, that isn’t great. But for me it’s a big deal, not having to stress about whether people have insurance. Sometimes I’ll just, you know, buy medicine, if we need it.”

Good lord. Eliot is going to need to make a list of programs where the doctors—or at least one doctor—sometimes pay for medications out of pocket. 

Quentin has come over beside Eliot to retrieve the chard. He gives him a little look with a shrug that conveys _hey, it’s worth it._ “The hospital here gives me the freedom to take care of patients at my own pace," he explains. "I can see them for as long as I want, and I can work where I'm needed." He smiles sadly and looks down at his hands, gently shaking water from the leaves over the sink. "It's kind of a doctor's dream." 

Eliot is beginning to get a sense of how hard it will be for Quentin when he does finally leave Kampala. He’s beginning to see how, in many ways, this is ideal for Quentin. It feels like there’s a little string tied to his heart that’s beginning to tug.

“While we’re on the subject,” he says as he wipes down the counter, “when we’re back to work, will you help me find all of the unglamorous, underfunded little corners of the hospital complex where patients would benefit from more resources and attention? I’d really like to help, where I can. Clearly, I can't award grants or allocate aid funds myself, but my report could spotlight areas where there’s need, and I might have some sway.”

When he looks up from hanging the kitchen towel Quentin is looking at him like this is somehow surprising, like _he’s_ surprising. Then he smiles, slowly, and nods. 

“Yeah, of course I will.” His eyes flash at Eliot before he turns back to the stove. “You know I was flirting with you when I first offered, right?”

Eliot steps up behind Quentin at the stove and puts his arms around his waist, tucks them together a little bit and looks down over his shoulder. “Very expertly, Doctor Coldwater.” He grins into his hair and kisses the side of his head, and Quentin hums and leans back into his arms.

Supper turns out to consist of bowls layered with fragrant couscous, a melange of fresh beans and greens and onions from the garden, little crisped filets of Nile perch on top, and a sweet, creamy, peanutty sauce. Eliot gets the impression that this might be a bit fancier than what Quentin would normally cook for himself, but not by much. 

“Come on,” Quentin says, gathering up a bowl and a fork and gesturing to Eliot to do the same, “I’ll show you where I eat dinner when the weather’s nice.” Eliot follows Quentin to the front door, but just before he opens it Quentin stops. “Just, um, one thing,” he says. He turns and reaches to set down his dinner, then steps up to Eliot and slides one large, warm hand around his back and the other up the back of his neck, and guides him down into a kiss. It’s a _very nice_ kiss, and when he pulls back Quentin grins at him, clever and cute with his dimples. “You know,” he says, “to hold us over.”

“Of course,” Eliot replies, bemused. His own cheeks feel warm from how much he enjoyed that. “Very thoughtful.”

They eat together on Quentin’s front stoop, sitting thigh-to-thigh and shoulder-to-shoulder with their supper on their laps, watching the sunset through the wide gaps in the trees and over the rolling slope of Mulago Hill, with most of Kampala far off in the distance. The food is delicious; there are seasonings that Eliot can’t place, complex but excellent, but it’s also wholesome in a way that makes him feel _nourished_. He tells Quentin how much he likes it, and watches him bashfully accept the praise with a little pleased smile before brushing his hair back from his eyes. Eliot looks back toward the sunset, to avoid staring at Quentin, and enjoys the lowering light painting the broad clouds in strokes of orange and gold.

#

After supper, Eliot offers to wash up. It takes a bit of reassurance to convince Quentin, but eventually he agrees, and adds, “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll give Ted a call. I have my notebook in the bedroom; it won’t be very long.”

“Of course,” Eliot tells him, “Do you mind if I look at your books if I finish up here before you’re done?”

“Go ahead, but most of my best stuff is back in Baltimore.” 

“Noted. I shan't judge.” He bends down to kiss him, just because. “Enjoy your call.”

Eliot has always liked the meditative aspect of washing dishes. The warm bubbles of the soap glide over his hands as he works, and he lets his mind relax and the time slip by.

The kitchen is different now that the sun’s gone down—lit by a single warm overhead light, it feels even smaller, and it’s nearly dark outside the window. Eliot has to scoot to the side so he’s not blocking the light to check that the dishes are clean. He stacks everything carefully on a clean towel to dry by the side of the sink, then wipes down the stove and counters before stooping back into the living room to peruse Quentin’s bookshelf.

There’s a small stereo set atop it, the kind that does a little bit of everything, and before he looks at the books Eliot is drawn to the music. He finds a few records—Miles Davis’ _Kind of Blue_ is notable—and, oddly, a case of cassette recordings with carefully hand-lettered titles on the cards inside the plastic cases. He reads one: “R. Schumann, Fantasiestücke Op.12, 1837; Rubinstein ‘62.” The others are similar—handmade recordings of classical performances. 

Eliot runs his fingers gently along the spines of the books. Most of them are paperback. He sees a lot of titles that look like sci-fi and fantasy, and a good little collection of Kurt Vonnegut. Some poetry, too, both old and new. Eliot’s fingers stop on a large, thin book that’s placed up against the edge of the shelf. It’s enclosed in a protective sleeve, like thick, waxed paper, and he can’t make out a title. He carefully slides the book from the shelf and turns it over. It has an aged, deep green cover with gold lettering shaped like roots and vines, and when he sees what it is he feels like he might faint.

Eliot delicately opens the volume. He doesn’t touch the pages. The frontispiece is the famous portrait of Whitman himself, hand on his hip and in his working-man’s hat. This is a first-edition of _Leaves of Grass,_ self-published in 1855. He takes a deep breath, gingerly closes this treasure, and slides it back into place.

“Hey Eliot?” Quentin says from the hallway arch across the room, and Eliot nearly falls over where he’s perched on his feet in front of the bookshelf. He turns to look at Quentin.

“Quentin,” he steadies himself with one hand against the wood floor boards, “I nearly had a heart attack when I found “Leaves of Grass.” 

“Oh! Yeah, that’s, um...” Quentin pushes his hand back through his hair with an inscrutable little smile. “It’s been in my family for a long time. Brought it in my carry-on—i know that was probably, you know, unwise... But I just really love it.”

Good heavens. Eliot can faintly hear a voice laughing from the bedroom, presumably Ted.

“So, um,” Quentin continues, “he says he’d like to meet you, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, uh, sure,” Eliot agrees, levering his long frame up off the floor. “I’d be glad to meet Ted.”

“Okay. I guess have a seat, and I’ll bring him in?”

Eliot nods in answer and moves to the low sofa that faces the front windows, the curtains now closed. A few moments later he hears Quentin whisper _“behave yourself”_ very loudly, just before he arrives with a notebook computer and sits down next to Eliot—very close to him, right up against his thigh. He holds up the screen to reveal a smiling man in his seventies with wavy salt-and-pepper hair, a moustache, wild eyebrows, and lively brown eyes. Ted looks at Quentin expectantly.

“Eliot, this is Ted,” Quentin says, with a small eye roll, “and Ted, this is Eliot.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Eliot tells him. He almost says “sir,” but decides to lean into the “best friend” part of what he’s been told about Ted’s role in Quentin’s life. 

“Ah, Eliot! My nephew’s told me all about you!” Ted winks in Quentin’s direction, and Quentin rolls his eyes once again. “I hope you’re enjoying Kampala?”

“Ah,” Eliot hurries to find his footing in this conversation. “Yes, I am. Have you been here?”

“I have, it’s a nice city,” Ted says. He pulls his eyeglasses down on his face and looks at Eliot over them, then takes them off and starts wiping them with a cloth. “It has its troubles, has its good parts. I know Quentin’s improving it, and it sounds like you are, too. You work for CARE?”

“I do. And I’m going to try.” 

“Good, good.” Ted puts his glasses back on. “Good people. Well, it sounds like you two are having fun, visiting the market and everything. Smart move making him a cake, by the way,” he addresses Eliot in a hushed tone, like they’re conspiring. “He’s had that sweet tooth his whole life.”

Eliot smiles gently and inclines his head in thanks. This is one of the strangest exchanges he’s ever had, in the course of dating. Ted seems to be in a thoughtful mood, and he continues, to both of them, “You know, some of my most romantic interludes have happened while traveling for work. Quentin, did I ever tell you about Giovanna, from Venice? Now there was one for the ages. What a laugh, she had... voice like a songbird...”

“Ted,” Quentin interrupts, “yes, you have. But maybe this isn’t the best time?” 

“Oh no?” Ted says, innocently. He’s obviously having quite a bit of fun. “Well, if you say so. Anyway, Eliot, I’m glad to meet you. Quentin has plenty of good things to say. Can’t properly tell with you both sitting down, but I understand you’re ‘tall like the Elves of Rivendell,’ which is a compliment.”

Quentin puts a hand over his face. “Oh my god.” 

Eliot is very much suppressing a giggle, but he wraps a supportive arm around Quentin nonetheless. “That I am,” he says, fully on Quentin’s side, here.

“I’m just saying,” Ted says with a grin and a twinkle in his eye, “it’s nice to see him with a paramour.”

_A paramour?_

“Right, then,” Ted announces with a slap to his table, “I’ll get going and let you boys go enjoy your night.”

Quentin has taken his hand off of his face, which is definitely on the red side. “Okay Ted,” he says, “I love you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Love you too,” Ted says to Quentin, and gives him a warm, broad smile. _Aha,_ Eliot thinks, noticing the family resemblance. “And goodnight to you, Eliot.”

“Goodnight.” Eliot smiles at Ted as Quentin ends the call, then sets the computer on the coffee table. They look at each other and then collapse back against the sofa. Eliot starts to laugh, and then Quentin starts to laugh, too.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin says, catching his breath, “I told you he was a character, right?”

“You did. Has he always been like that?”

“Yes. Always. And lately he’s way too invested in my love life.”

Eliot wraps Quentin in both arms and pulls him over against his chest. “I think it’s cute.”

“I can’t believe he outed me as a nerd.”

Eliot squeezes Quentin tighter and kisses his hair. “I’d already noticed. It’s part of your charm. Besides...” he pauses for dramatic effect because he can’t help himself, “you did pick the sexiest subcategory of elves.”

“Oh my god,” Quentin groans, and blushes again, and Eliot just holds him tight and laughs.

#

“Do you know what time it is?” Eliot eventually asks. “When do you think I should head back to the guest house?” He has Quentin basically curled up on top of him, collapsed from laughter and embarrassment that he eventually kissed away, laying across the sofa with his feet sticking off the end. It’s a good cuddle situation.

“I wish you could stay over,” Quentin says, his head on Eliot’s chest. Eliot has been enjoying touching his hair, and Quentin’s voice sounds hazy and happy. “But we both have to go to work in the morning, in work clothes. And... mmm... and you should probably be seen at your place.”

“Mhmm, I agree. Let me see...” He manages to fish his phone out of his trouser pocket with his least-occupied hand and hit a button. “Eight forty-one,” he supplies, nudging the phone back into place and getting his arm back around Quentin.

Quentin starts scratching his fingernails through Eliot’s chest hair where his top buttons are still casually undone. “I think we’re okay for another hour or so. Are you in a hurry to go?”

“Oh no, not at all.” He rubs his hand up and down Quentin’s back. Eliot can think of plenty of wonderful ways to spend an hour with Quentin, but he’s still getting to know the man—he’s curious about what Quentin wants. “Do you have something in mind?”

“I absolutely do.” Quentin lifts himself up on his arms and scoots up Eliot’s body to kiss him, sexy and slow. “Let’s go back to bed.”

What Quentin has in mind, it turns out, is the most languorous, thorough, drawn-out, fucking _fantastic_ blow job that Eliot can remember ever receiving. Quentin gets Eliot out of his clothes by candlelight and kisses him back onto the bed. He’s beautiful, up on his arms over Eliot with his chest tight and his hair hanging in curtains around his face. He kisses and sucks his way down Eliot’s body, and Quentin’s moan of pleasure when he gets his mouth around Eliot’s cock is completely unselfconscious and overwhelmingly hot. 

He takes the full hour. Easily. And when he does finally make Eliot come, Eliot’s hands tangled in the sheets and Quentin’s hair, moaning and gasping his name, _Quentin comes too,_ pressing against the bed and pulling Eliot’s cock deep into his throat as they both grip and shake and shudder with release, the candlelight flickering and spilling warm over their glistening skin and casting their frantic shadows on the wall.

When Eliot leaves the cottage he’s still warm and buzzing and can barely believe it, but he managed to pull himself together enough to give Quentin a very sweet, lingering good night kiss and thank him for a _fabulous_ day. It wasn’t easy to leave, with Quentin pressed, lovely and compact, up against his body by the front door and a heady afterglow making every breath feel sensual, but he finally did manage to kiss him goodnight one last time and make his way by moonlight down the winding, verdant path to the road. 

It’s not a bad night to walk on this narrow road under the stars. Eliot is glad to have his jacket, but it isn’t cold. The packed red earth looks grey in the dim, bluish light. Eliot takes in a deep breath of cool, thick night air, redolent with flowers. He’ll be meeting Quentin for lunch tomorrow, and starting their unofficial tours. It’s going to be some kind of crazy challenge, acting like his friend and colleague and nothing more, but he’ll manage it, somehow. Eliot has a job to do, an important job, and he also needs to keep them both safe.

He started out this morning feeling half in love with Quentin, and full of anticipation. Taking stock, twelve hours later, Eliot finds that he’s still there, only moreso, for knowing him better. 

And now he’s a _paramour._

He grins to himself and walks with his hands in his pockets. Eliot can live with that. 


	10. Chapter 10

The following week unfolds strangely to Quentin, in exhilarating moments and long hours of mindful patience as he goes about his work. He amends his schedule to make time to show Eliot the hidden corners of the hospital, extending his already long lunch hour, and takes extra care to avoid daydreaming... at least while he’s with his patients. 

When Eliot arrives, just before noon on Monday, at Quentin’s small office in the Infectious Diseases building, Dr. Mugisa seems to magically intercept them in the hall. Fortunately, Quentin is ready with his very professional explanation about how he’ll be showing Eliot around to help with his report. He does his best to sound both confident and casual, and Estella seems to relax somewhat and accept this. They mostly share a warm working relationship, with considerable mutual respect, and Quentin supposes that it helps that what he’s telling her is true, if far from the whole truth. 

“Make sure that you devote adequate time to the tuberculosis wards,” she advises with a smile. “And leprosy as well.”

With Eliot she has a more professional, and slightly intimidating, demeanor. “Mr. Waugh, I will be happy to personally acquaint you with our programs for malaria and parasitic infections, and discuss how our work is funded. Please see my secretary to arrange a meeting.” 

“Of course. Thank you, Doctor,” Eliot says, formal and polite. He’s standing in the hallway outside Quentin’s office and looking incredibly handsome and put together in a lovely suit and beautifully patterned tie that sets off the gold in his eyes. Estella nods efficiently and wishes them both a good afternoon. She has a particular, regal way of making one feel they’ve been dismissed, even when she’s the one walking away.

“Um, if you don’t mind,” Quentin addresses Eliot, keeping his voice light as Estella’s footsteps echo down the hallway, “step into my office for a moment. I have some organizational materials that may help, and I think I have an old map that we can write on.”

“Oh, that sounds very useful,” Eliot replies airily.

They slip into Quentin’s office and he quietly turns to lock the door. He hears Eliot set down his case and feels his fingers sweep lightly across the top of his back. Quentin turns around and reaches for him, puts his arms around his waist as he pulls him closer, and he hears and feels Eliot let out a breath of relief. 

“Hi,” he says, smiling up at him, and then Eliot leans down and gathers Quentin up into his arms and kisses him.

It’s wonderful—a gorgeous, intimate kiss, exactly what Quentin has been dreaming of all morning—Eliot’s soft lips and mouth caressing and opening for him, drawing him in, lovely and welcoming.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am that you have a private office,” Eliot grins down at him when their lips finally part.

“I’d say you can show me, but we definitely don’t have that much time.” 

Eliot laughs and holds him tighter. “Would you like to come over after work?”

“Yes,” Quentin’s reply is immediate. “Let’s do that.”

It’s so surreal, walking around the hospital complex with Eliot by his side after they pick up lunch at the canteen. They discuss the hospital programs, and Quentin introduces Eliot to colleagues. It isn’t unpleasant, working with him like this. Quentin can mostly slip into a cordial, professional headspace, but every once in a while their eyes will meet for a moment too long before one of them nervously looks away, or their knuckles will brush, or fingertips linger as they pass the map. Several times Quentin’s breath hitches in his chest when he just _looks at_ Eliot. The tension is mostly under the surface, but it’s amazing. 

Strangely, Quentin can’t bring himself to touch Eliot in a friendly way in public, not on this first day, after everything. Even though he, himself, had explained how it was okay, on Friday morning in Eliot’s front room, and what kind of touches between men were not considered intimate... if he tried, he isn’t sure he would get it right, now. He’s not sure he would remember the difference.

When they finally return to his office afterward, on the flimsy excuse of finding one more piece of paperwork, it feels almost as though Quentin _needs_ to kiss him again; when Eliot backs him up and pins him against his office door, it’s all that Quentin can do not to moan out loud. And then... and then Eliot has to go, because Quentin has to go, because he is a doctor with patients and a schedule and not just a lover pressed against a locked door, and because they have to be careful and discreet. 

“I’ll see you in a few hours?” Eliot asks, hot against his lips, and when Quentin nods a breathless “Yeah,” he kisses him again, sharp and brief, and backs gracefully out his office door.

Their rendezvous that evening is intense: passionate, tender, and romantic all at once. Eliot leaves Quentin in a blissful haze in his bed and goes out for a short while, returning with containers of food from the informal restaurant attached to the main building of the guest house. 

He serves him spicy curry and noodles in his kitchen bowls and asks him small questions about his life—where did Quentin grow up, what was his family like—that are only slightly tricky to answer honestly. Philadelphia still has Quakers; the house where Quentin was raised is still standing, the neighborhood only slightly changed. He tells Eliot about being a sensitive kid who loved to read, an only child. Quentin knows not to ask the same things of him, that Eliot will share the details of his childhood if he wants to, in his own time. 

After they eat, they go back to bed.

It all feels impossibly decadent, and Quentin savors every moment. Eliot is a wonderful lover—skillful, passionate, and indulgent. He’s thoughtful and careful. How Quentin has come upon such a man in this of all places he doesn’t know, but he isn’t going to question it. It’s been a long time, and Eliot is a treasure.

The next day they meet for a lunch full of lingering glances, during which Quentin feels himself blush more than once. They tour a bit more and then make out gorgeously (but hurriedly) in Quentin’s office, but he doesn’t go over to Eliot’s guest house after work. Eliot has plans with Margo: they’re streaming a movie together, somehow, and having a night in. Eliot says they need an evening for gossip and relaxed fabulousness. Quentin kind of wishes he could see it, because that side of Eliot sounds delightful, but he understands. He stops by the old College of Medicine hall after work, where the party was held, and spends an hour playing the piano there. He watches the sunset and reads a short story and has a great visit with Ted, then goes to bed early, thinking wistfully about his lover but completely content.

When Wednesday morning dawns, Quentin’s body reminds him that it’s still functionally twenty-nine. He’d been having a very nice dream about Eliot... It’s funny how the libido flourishes when its needs are well-met, like a plant in a sunny window. More than just that, though, Quentin realizes that he just... wants Eliot here. In his house, in his bed. He wants to touch him and hear his voice, particularly his laugh.

Would that be safe, he wonders, to have him over on a work night? The temptation to keep Eliot there overnight might be overwhelming, he realizes, because he _really wants_ to wake up with him. The weekend, though... hopefully they can have the weekend.

Quentin decides to bring the possibility up that evening, when they are once again together at Eliot’s place. They both know, rationally, that it’s good to take breaks, but they’ve spent the past forty-eight hours being unable to really touch each other, and they’re clearly both approaching some kind of breaking point. 

It feels like acting in a play—or what Quentin imagines that would be like—walking up to Eliot’s front door, knocking, being invited in, so casual and cheerful. Time has slowed down. Then once he’s inside and the door has closed and locked behind him reality comes rushing back in in full sound and color. Eliot’s lips are on his, his hands are on his body, Quentin can smell him and hear him and taste him and _feel him._ They leave a trail of clothing behind them on their way to the bedroom, not bothering to speak. 

Quentin feels _hungry_ for Eliot, and once he gets him out of his clothes he’s struck by how statuesque he is, graceful and beautifully proportioned, with posture so perfect that one might think he was a dancer. He seems almost preternaturally sexy, and Quentin wants him desperately. 

He makes himself pause for a moment. “Eliot, is this all right?” Quentin has climbed up over Eliot and has been moving his lips down his body, and he’s aware that he’s being a bit more _assertive_ than he’s been with him, up until now.

“Absolutely,” Eliot says, his voice breathy.

Quentin kisses across his lower belly. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to go home and wash up.” He nuzzles against the soft, dark little trail of fuzzy hair there. “But I do really love using my mouth on you.”

Eliot rolls his hips beneath Quentin’s chest and laughs. “Well, as luck would have it, I _did_ have time to come home and wash up. So...?”

The grin comes to Quentin’s face unbidden. “Oh, that is just... fantastic news.” He scoots down and takes the head of Eliot’s cock into his mouth, swirls his tongue heavily around him and pops off. “What would you. Um.” Quentin is very distracted by Eliot’s beautiful dick. “What would you like?” He decides that he can, just, do that again, while Eliot gathers his thoughts. And maybe he’ll just carry on a little bit more.

“Oh my god, Quentin.” Eliot sounds like he’s laughing. 

Quentin stops what he’s doing and pops off again, looking up at him. “Hmmm?”

Eliot has propped himself up on his elbows and is watching him. “Okay, one.” He sounds slightly breathless still. “You’re ravishing like that and the sexiness is distracting.” He reaches a hand down to lift Quentin’s cheek when he ducks down out of embarrassment. “And two... you’re so good at that, baby. I couldn’t possibly think. It's impossible.” He smiles at him fondly and rubs his thumb over Quentin’s cheekbone. 

Quentin can’t resist. He gives his cock a kiss and grins up at him. “All right, sorry.” They both know he’s really not sorry. “Tell me what you’d like. I’m a little out of practice with topping, but I can do my best.”

Eliot looks at him fondly. “Would you let me ride you?” 

_Oh._ That sounds fantastic, actually. He smiles up at Eliot, a big, open grin. “Absolutely. Yes. Can I rim you first?” 

Eliot’s eyes go wide. “Oh, _god_. Okay. But let me kiss you more.”

They end up kissing for absolutely _ages,_ and Quentin loves it. Eliot lets him take his time opening him up, too. After the urgency of the path to the bedroom, now that they’re out of their clothes and in each other’s arms, everything becomes languid, almost dreamy— it feels like it’s too good to rush. Quentin adores the marvelous way that Eliot responds to his tongue and his fingers, all sharp breaths and stuttering quiet moans. He savors his taste and soft, spicy, musky scent, and enjoys every moment that he spends with his mouth on his lover’s body.

When they’re both clearly ready, Eliot beckons Quentin up the bed to kiss him. “Let me take over from here, okay sweetheart?”

Quentin nods. _Yes,_ that’s okay. It’s almost always _more than okay_ —Quentin’s sexually submissive streak couldn’t possibly have gone unnoticed at this point; he’s deeply pleased that Eliot seems to enjoy it.

He ends up on his back, with Eliot astride his hips. It’s the most stunning thing Quentin’s seen in ages, this beautiful man taking pleasure from rolling and falling on his cock. Quentin’s gaze slides over his broad, straight shoulders; he watches his curls falling across his forehead. Eliot’s eyes slide closed in bliss, and a warm flush appears high on his cheeks as he smiles, head tilted back, exposing the long, slender column of his throat. Quentin rubs his fingertips over Eliot’s small, dark nipples and down his chest, settles his hands on his hips and thrusts up to meet him. He feels phenomenal. Eventually he begins to stroke him, long and slow, his erection hard and slick with precome and his body stretched out above him. 

They manage to time it just right, Eliot tipping over the edge with a gorgeous moan and bringing Quentin along with him. Quentin thinks he might never forget it, how exquisite it is to come deep inside of him while watching, _feeling_ Eliot’s pulsing release arc up above him and splatter over his chest. 

Eliot pulls Quentin into a tender embrace, afterwards, and kisses him for a long, long time. It's wonderful, and Quentin feels _such_ affection for him. He doesn’t try to parse it. It might seem incredible, how much he’s growing to care for him already, if it didn’t feel so natural.

“I’d like to cook for you again,” Eliot tells him not much later, his arms still nice and solid around him while Quentin leans back against his chest. “But I’m afraid I’m not set up for much beyond eggs. Can we plan another date where I can make you dinner?”

“Mhmm, I’d like that.” Quentin twists around to kiss him on the jaw. “Um, I have dinner plans with Jane tomorrow night, so I won’t be, um, free...”

“Tragic, but understandable.” Eliot starts nibbling on his ear, presumably because it’s right there.

“Right, but uh... would you like to cook at my house? I’d like to take you to _places,_ you know, on _dates,_ but... being closeted is stressful, and I want to spend time with you in a way that’s _not stressful,_ so. Um.” This is surprisingly hard to ask. Why is he nervous? Quentin plows ahead. “Would you like to spend some of the weekend at my place? Maybe starting on Friday night?”

Eliot is still for a moment, and when Quentin looks up at him he has a soft, inscrutable smile on his face. “I’d love to,” he says, and bends down for a kiss.

Eliot brings them takeout again—a stew, this time, with warm bread—and also brings back a new set of crisp white hotel sheets from housekeeping. He declined the regular cleaning service in favor of privacy, he explains, and Quentin is happy to help him make up the bed. They enjoy their meal together at Eliot’s table, set with the cloth and candle like it was on their first date, and Quentin savors being able to hold his hand and ask him quietly for stories from his travels while feeling the echoes from that special dinner, before they were what they are now.

He leaves Eliot’s place by mid-evening, after dinner and a very, very sweet kiss, once again with new memories of Eliot to accompany him on his walk home. 

#

Jane Chatwin is a very singular person in Quentin’s life. She’s his oldest friend who does not know his secret.

Quentin has known Jane since 1996, when she was a young aid worker with Oxfam, bringing food for the refugees at the hot and crowded Ndaka refugee camp in Tanzania, where he and Ted worked. Jane contracted a serious illness while she was at the camp, which Quentin finally diagnosed as miliary tuberculosis, a rare form that attacks the muscles. He sent her to the closest major city hospital for better treatment, and the next time he saw her, after the camp closed in ‘97, she had survived but lost her sight. 

Quentin lives and works in Kampala partly due to Jane’s encouragement—she’s been here for the past fifteen years. They meet for dinner a couple of times a month, and occasionally chat on the phone. He enjoys her sense of humor, and how it always feels like they’re plotting something. For years, they’ve gossiped about men; Quentin is looking forward to telling Jane about Eliot.

He meets her at a nice Mediterranean restaurant a little way south of the hill, where they have a reservation. It’s the kind of place with thick white tablecloths and a view. Quentin and Jane have never dated, but of course that’s what it will look like to strangers, and walking up to the door he feels a pang of regret that he can’t bring Eliot somewhere like this. For lunch, maybe, but just... not looking in his eyes, not touching his hand, worrying what people were thinking... it would be miserable. At least for Quentin. 

Jane is already seated, which is usually the case. She looks lovely, with her hair pinned back in a twist and her classic British-looking blouse and skirt.

“Jane,” Quentin says warmly as he approaches the table. “Hi, it’s Quentin.”

She reaches for his hand and he gives it to her, then leans in for a kiss on the cheek.

“Hello, Quentin. How are you, my dear?” she asks. “It’s only been a week, this is quite a treat.”

Has it? Good heavens, she’s nearly right. It feels like it’s been much longer than... eight days, since that night he took Eliot up on that roof under the stars. 

“I’m well,” Quentin begins, taking his seat and unfolding his napkin, “I’m great, actually. And I’ll tell you all about it. But first, how are you?”

It’s easy to fall into slightly old-fashioned manners with Jane. She’s always been a little bit formal, which definitely began with her uppercrust upbringing. When she gets drunk Jane is hilarious and delightfully, embarrassingly bawdy—but even then she retains an uncannily dignified air. 

“Oh, I’m nearly the same as last week,” she teases. “Little to complain about; I quite enjoy myself. I’ll have to tell you about what I’m reading,” she leans in close with a smile, “my newest book is _rather steamy_. But let’s order first, shall we?”

Quentin reads the menu for them, and they order dinner and a bottle of Sangiovese. It turns out that Jane’s new book is a gay romance novel from the U.S. that came out last year and was wildly popular—enough to have been reviewed in newspapers, translated into several languages, and published in braille. 

From Jane’s description, it’s quite explicit. Quentin is slightly shocked, if he’s honest with himself. He remembers the Comstock Acts.

“I suppose the world really must be changing,” he says quietly, topping off their wine. “I never expected such a thing. Homoerotic fiction, reviewed in the Times.” 

“Oh it is. Changing, that is. In fits and starts.” Jane reaches out to find his hand and give it a friendly squeeze. “You should read it, it’s clever and _very_ diverting.”

Quentin’s mind goes to how very occupied he’s been, lately. “Well, as luck would have it...” He leaves the thread of that statement hanging, expecting Jane to catch it, and takes a sip of his wine. 

“Quentin!” Jane lightly slaps the table with indignant delight. “You’ve been holding back on me, how dare you! Tell me immediately.”

He smiles to himself. “I’m sure you remember Eliot, from the party?”

“Of course. He was endlessly charming. Quentin, are you two...” She kicks his foot under the table and leans down to whisper, “are you... you know?”

Quentin keeps his voice low but can’t help his grin. “We absolutely _are.”_

Her laughter is hearty and delighted. “Oh, my friend. _Good_ for you. I assume that you’re having a wonderful time?”

“Surprisingly so.”

“Well, you _did say_ he was very handsome.”

“Oh he is. He’s stunning. But he has other very good qualities, too.”

“Please,” Jane says, obviously intrigued, “tell me _all about it.”_

Before Quentin can do so, their dinner arrives at the table. It takes several minutes to get settled, as Jane is oriented to the locations of different dishes and they wait for their server to leave before trying their first bites. Quentin tastes a sharp, lemony salad and thinks about what he wants to say.

“Well...” he finally continues, quietly, “he’s very sweet with me. Genuinely so. And affectionate. He’s... he’s _good_. Like, decent, and kind. And also he’s intelligent, and funny... and I. Well, um.” 

How is he going to explain this? Jane is listening carefully, and Quentin feels a little embarrassed, but he goes ahead.

“I really like it when he enjoys things. God, I don’t—this sounds so stupid in my head—but like, his energy, at those times, it’s so... I don’t know. It’s so _pure_ , I guess. Like there’s no weird filter on it, or other motivation. He’s just... beautiful.” 

Jane’s expression is soft and thoughtful. She takes a drink of her wine. “It sounds like you’re becoming quite enamored with him.”

“Yeah,” Quentin admits, “honestly, I kind of am.” He feels himself smiling. It felt good to say that. He guesses he can worry about whether it’s wise at a later time.

After a few moments, Jane asks, “How old would you say Eliot is?”

“Probably thirty-four or thirty-five.”

“Hmm. Bit young, but a grown man.”

Quentin reminds himself that nodding isn’t a sufficient response, with Jane. “Yes, he is.”

“You’ve never particularly had a thing for younger men, though, have you?”

“No.” It’s an honest answer. Jane assumes that Quentin is in his early fifties, and dealing with an interesting age difference. If she only knew. “Actually, before you and I met, _I_ dated a few guys in their fifties.” 

“Did you?! You never told me that! How was it?”

Quentin can feel that the wine is loosening his tongue a bit, thank goodness. 

“Well, I’m not really into big power imbalances in relationships, and they mostly _were,_ so... yeah. Not very successful. But, you know...” he smiles, naturally, even though Jane can’t see it, “they were still hot.” 

That gets him a laugh. “Well, you certainly won’t get any judgement from me, with your younger beau. You can both make your own decisions. And as long as you can keep up with him...”

Quentin sputters a little. “I... wow. Um. Yeah, that’s... not been a problem.”

Jane is laughing _at_ him, now. “Oh darling, how drunk would I have to get you to get details?”

“Much, much more drunk than this.”

They do not get drunk enough for that, not by a long way, but Quentin does tell her about their trip to the market, and dinner at Eliot’s, and he summarizes the next day. More importantly, he tells her how happy he was that day, and how happy he still is. 

She puts a warm hand on top of his, near the end of their visit. “I’m so pleased for you, Quentin. My dear, you deserve it.”

#

As Quentin is getting ready to talk with Ted later that night, once again at home and making a cup of tea, something that Jane said begins to dig at his mind. She’d said, talking about their age difference, that they could both make their own decisions. They can’t though, can they? Eliot can’t. He’s missing vital information.

Quentin feels terrible about deceiving him. He knows the well-worn track of this train of thought: no one would choose to be with him if they knew his true age; they would probably think him disgusting, or pitiable; perhaps they would think he was taking advantage of them; _is_ he taking advantage of them? It’s wrong to lie to people, especially in a context like this. He doesn’t deserve their trust, doesn’t deserve a place in their hearts or to take time away from their lives... Before he can spiral into anxiety and self-loathing, Quentin calls Ted.

Ted appears on the screen and takes one look at him. “Pops, what’s wrong?”

“Ted, thank god.” Quentin is walking with the computer to the sofa. He hurries to explain. “I had dinner with Jane tonight—which was great—and I told her about Eliot, and she was so lovely about everything. But also she said we could ‘both make our own decisions.’ You know, about seeing someone of a different age. But, I mean, Jane thinks I’m twenty years older than Eliot. Which is... ha! But Eliot, he thinks, I mean, I told him I had a baby-face and didn’t move here in my twenties, so he probably thinks I’m like, _zero_ years older than him, so he _has_ no meaningful choice, here, and I’m just, _deceiving him,_ and if he knew I was actually this, like, ancient old person... oh my god. And normally this doesn’t... I’m not... But with _him..._ and I feel... oh god. Okay, I’m gonna sit down.”

He sits down on and looks, probably pretty desperately, at Ted on the screen. Ted is regarding him with a combination of compassion, concern, and amusement.

“All right, let’s start with some breathing, shall we? Breathe and count, here we go.”

Quentin nods, “Okay, yeah,” and goes through a couple of minutes of slow, deep breathing. Best to try not to have a full-blown anxiety attack. 

“All right, you just keep breathing while I talk, okay? You may not entirely agree, but humor me for a few minutes and hear me out. We can bicker later, I promise.”

Quentin barks out a laugh. “All right, okay, yeah. Please continue.” He sets his hands on his knees and takes another slow, deep breath in, slowly lets it out, and looks at Ted. 

“Now I know you think of yourself as an old man because you’ve been alive for so long, but I don’t think you quite have the right to such an august title.” 

Now _that_ is challenging not to interrupt. Quentin shoots Ted an _oh, please_ look but he keeps quiet.

“Keep listening, all right? I also know this is a touchy subject for you, since you spent so many years wishing for nothing more than silver hair and wrinkles.” Ted adjusts his glasses and peers at Quentin to make sure he’s still listening. 

“There are things that happen, when one grows old. I don’t talk about this, but I’m gonna talk about it now. Things that happen to the body, and things that happen to the mind. The body goes into decline. It gets weaker, and more fragile, and more painful, until it gives out. I know you know this. Weird things happen to your brain, too—you lose concentration, more or less of your memory, time speeds up. Experiencing this, and coming to terms with it in here,” he taps his temple, “and in here,” he moves his fingers to tap over his heart, “that’s the essence of old age.”

Quentin takes a mental step back from his situation to appreciate Ted. He’s never spoken so frankly about aging before—Quentin loves him for being willing to go there for his sake. He can see where this is going, most likely. He gives Ted a sad smile and lets him continue.

“Pops—Quentin—none of this has happened to you, as you know. You have a lot of experience, but _you’re not an old man_. You have _the gift of perpetual youth,_ evidently, and...” here Ted pitches his voice low for emphasis and looks Quentin in the eye, "I’d like it if you could try to get to a place where you stop thinking of yourself as some kind of charlatan, and accept that. You could consider it a gift to me.” He leans back a bit and looks at Quentin kindly. “Now that is not a joke, I’m serious, but there is one coming, so hang in there. Keep breathing.”

Ted is so sweet that Quentin thinks he might cry. He nods instead and takes a breath.

“Eliot isn’t crazy about a lie, Pops. He’s crazy about the real you.” He gestures with his hand to indicate, it seems, the totality of Quentin, sitting there on his sofa. “Good, sweet, nerdy, apparently sexy Quentin.” They both chuckle at that, and Ted continues. “Maybe this will turn into something more and you’ll tell him about all your extra experience some day. I kind of hope so, he seems pretty special and I think you deserve whatever love and happiness the world sends your way. But in the mean time, stop thinking like that, all right? Give him a chance.”

Quentin nods, but Ted holds up a finger to stop him from saying anything.

“And one _more_ thing: those thoughts about being gross and so forth are your brain lying to you. You’re not, and no one would think you were.” He pauses to let that sink in and gives Quentin an adamant look through the monitor, then softens and says, quieter and with a little smile, “And if it’s hard to take just my word for it, consider how the world feels about vampires. Everyone is just _pining_ for some ancient, dreamy vampire to show up at their bedroom window and ravish them. And those guys are assholes. You’re so much better.” 

Quentin laughs. He’s definitely going to cry. “Ted, I love you. Thank you.”

“I love you, too. And you’re welcome. Spoonful of sugar and all that, but I mean it. All of it.”

It helps—of course it helps. After they’ve finished their call, Quentin takes care of the tea and the notebook and settles in for the night. He’s so grateful. What would he ever do, what _will_ he ever do, without Ted? He doesn’t let himself go down that path, right now. Quentin feels like he owes it to Ted to take what he said seriously, to do his best to sit with his words, and not let anxiety overrun him. With Eliot he’ll just... he’ll try to relax. Live in the moment. Ted was right about him being special. Maybe Quentin can just... maybe he can give them a chance.

* * *

_iv. In 1978, six years after his grandmother’s passing, Ted Coldwater asked Quentin to move with him to New York City. They found an apartment in midtown Manhattan, on the West Side, three floors up from a row of quiet old shops. Ted was able to help Quentin doctor his credentials and obtain some forged identification documents, and Quentin eventually reentered the world of medicine, taking courses to update his knowledge and working in public health clinics in the city. Becoming a doctor again must have done something for Quentin’s spirit—he seemed young again, not only in body but in his enthusiasm and love for the world. It was a beautiful thing to see._

_Ted told most of the people they met over the next sixteen years of their residence there that Quentin was his cousin; Quentin, who did not naturally enjoy subterfuge, usually stuck with “friend.” This became a bit of a stumbling block when, after much cajoling, Quentin finally started dating again._

_His grandfather being romantically interested in men was news to Ted—not a problem, of course, but a bit of a shock. “When did this start?” he had asked, and without looking up from his newspaper Quentin had said “1904.” Ted was also extremely surprised to learn that his grandparents had each had a few discreet lovers over the course of their marriage, although Quentin swore him to secrecy on that one. Thus began Ted’s campaign to help Quentin get himself out of the closet and meet some decent beaus._

_It didn’t go particularly well, at first. “Pops,” Ted eventually had to explain, “all these guys think I’m your boyfriend. You need to get on board with ‘cousin.’” After Quentin recovered from his mortification over that, he did finally, haltingly, figure out how to date._

_Quentin found it so exciting: coming out, claiming an identity and finding a place in New York’s queer community. He only ever dated casually, keeping the secret of his long life and experience to himself, but it was wonderful to feel as though, both in his work and in his love life, he was experiencing a second youth. Ted was lovely and funny and thoroughly supportive, although Quentin did have to get used to the embarrassment of meeting half-dressed women in their kitchen from time to time._

_Of course, life in New York did not remain exhilarating and freeing for long. When the AIDS epidemic arrived Quentin and Ted both did everything they could to fight it, but the tragedy was sometimes overwhelming for Quentin._

_In the late eighties, as Quentin’s hundredth birthday was approaching, their family lost Angela, and then Rupert shortly after. Quentin’s son had been a quiet man, after the war. He was an illustrator of books, deeply devoted to his wife and son, and had sought a calm life—in many ways not unlike his father. They had been close, in their own way, and Quentin loved him dearly and adored Angela, as well. Their loss was acute for Quentin and for Ted, now the last members of the Coldwater family._

_The anti-depressants that were becoming available at that time didn’t prove very effective for Quentin; whether that was because of their formulas or because he was also dealing with grief, he didn’t know. After a couple more years, their affairs all in order and most of their belongings in storage, Ted and Quentin resigned from their jobs in New York and set out for Africa._


	11. Chapter 11

Margo does not understand, but Eliot has to give her credit for trying. 

“So he’s... shy, and pretty, and a majorly good lay?” She sounds like she’s genuinely trying to pin this down.

Eliot rolls his eyes as he carefully hangs and puts away his laundry from the dry cleaner. He has Margo on speaker phone on the top of the bureau. It’s Thursday night, and he’s having a housekeeping evening. 

“I feel as though I’m failing to convey the nuance of the ‘good lay’ situation.”

“God, Eliot. You told me he wanted to rim you. How much nuance do you think I need?”

He laughs a tiny bit, shaking his head. Maybe telling her that was a mistake, in retrospect.

“Okay look,” he explains, rolling his ties and carefully filing them in the top drawer, “I have no idea how he is _the way he is_. He’s been celibate for three years. But he’s like... he’s like, all openness, zero pretense— like he just... puts it all out there, entirely.” 

“You’re attracted to his vibe.” She sounds incredulous.

“I’m attracted to _him,_ and I’m startled by his vibe? _God,_ Margo. It’s bewitching.”

 _“Bewitching?”_ Margo must be working very hard not to tease him right now. He appreciates her willingness to roll with this.

Eliot is checking that the creases of his trousers are laying properly on the hangers. It’s easier to not feel quite so absurd when he’s busy. “Quentin’s... fuck, Bambi, he’s beautiful. And he’s like, _expert level_ skilled—it’s ridiculous.” Margo makes an _mhmm_ noise, encouraging him to go on, while Eliot re-tucks and smoothes his bedding. “And, even though he’s _adorably_ shy, just, a lot of the time, in bed he’s _very_ open about what he wants—which is, evidently, to kill me with sex, because so far everything he does is just _beyond_. Every single time.”

“And you like it.”

“God, yes. I do.”

“This sounds like a total _lay back and enjoy it_ situation to me, baby. Did you really just want to tell me that loverboy is weirdly good in bed, or is there something else going on here?”

Eliot pauses. He sits down on the bed. Being honest with Margo is a pretty high priority, even when being honest with himself feels like, just, _a lot_.

“Well, I mean, we already talked about _the feelings._ I’m trying to take it slow and just... notice them? That was Joy’s advice.” Eliot finally facetimed with his occasional therapist this morning—she was very interested in his ‘mental framing’ of this entire thing.

“Notice them, and not, like, fight them off?” 

“Right. Or run away from them or... whatever. Just notice, and like, enjoy this? Give it time?”

“Huh. Is that how it works...” Margo is giving him a hard time, but she might also be a little bit serious.

“So I’m told. You know I don’t just _fall for_ people.”

Her voice is surprisingly kind. “That’s just because you haven’t let yourself, El.”

And well. That’s true. Eliot knows this. It’s also easy to avoid emotional intimacy when the person you’re platonically sharing your life with is, essentially, aromantic. Two peas in a pod: emulate Margo, never get hurt. 

Eliot is self-aware enough to know this isn’t an optimal strategy for him. He’s actually not like Margo in that way; he just has a hard history. _Maybe_ he’s a little more afraid of getting his heart broken than the average person... who can know? But he’s been “not really looking for a relationship” for several years now, and... and he didn’t see this coming.

Eliot flops theatrically backward on the bed. “Why now, Bambi? Why here? _Uganda._ So far away from our lives, so homophobic... He has to be in the closet, did I tell you that? _Completely._ It’s not like I can just... pop over for a romantic weekend with no work-related excuse.”

“Please,” she says in her no-patience-for-this-bullshit voice. “There’s no ‘why’ to any of this. Eliot, nobody has a plan for your life, except you and maybe me. You control this shit.”

“I know,” Eliot tells her, suddenly feeling terribly real. “I’m sorry. I’m scared. It’s easier to complain than face that.”

Margo takes a moment longer than usual to reply. “Hey, don’t apologize. I’m up for dramatic bitching nine times out of ten. But yeah,” she softens her voice, “I know you are. Look, if you decide you want this to be a thing—a real thing? We’ll figure it out. We’ll find work-related excuses for you to visit. We’ll get him up to Geneva. I don’t mind a logistical challenge.”

Eliot really wishes he could pull Margo in for a hug. “Thank you. You know you’re the actual best?”

“I know.” She does know. “I love you, too. Now, when can I meet him?”

Eliot doesn’t want to just spring Margo on Quentin, but he tells her he’ll try for this weekend. 

“Just... try not to scare him, all right?”

“All right, honey,” she says, dramatically long-suffering, “only for you.”

#

Friday goes by strangely, with time seeming to slow down, then speed up, then slow down again. Eliot gets in a good three hours of outlining and writing before he goes to meet Quentin, this time in the pediatric AIDS unit, before lunch. 

It feels like an odd but real milestone, that Quentin wants to introduce him to the kids he’s working with. Eliot brings them a copy of _Through the Looking Glass_ that he found at a bookshop near the dry cleaner, and spends most of an hour charming children between the ages of four and ten. Some are bold and others are shy, but all of them seem to trust and adore Quentin, who is gentle and respectful and just, seriously, like Fred-Rogers-level good with them.

Eliot wonders, offhandedly, what Quentin is _not_ good at, as he watches him talk to sick Ugandan preschoolers and make them laugh. Thinking back to their discussion in the garden, he remembers Quentin mentioning things that were too stressful for him, and how he benefits from simplicity. Quentin has carved this life out for himself intentionally—of course it’s going to suit him. If anything, it may be most remarkable for someone their age to know themself as well as he does.

When they finally make it back to Quentin's office, the kiss that they share feels like it’s imbued with relief about much more than just having to wait a whole day to kiss. Eliot tries not to read too much into it—maybe they both had a weird night, last night. He's definitely missed him, and he feels... such affection. He holds Quentin tight as he kisses him, sweet and tender and relieved.

“So um,” Quentin starts, a little breathless, “are you still coming over tonight?”

“Yes,” Eliot says, and kisses him again. “When? Would around six be all right?” 

“Perfect.”

Quentin fits so perfectly in his arms, small and solid. Eliot loves it. He hums as he kisses his temple, and has to shake his head to make himself focus. He’s not actually... sure how long he’s invited for?

“So I thought I’d bring a few things,” he begins. “I do want to cook for you—can I make dinner tonight?” Quentin nods, “Mhmm,” and Eliot continues, “And probably... change of clothes?”

Thankfully, Quentin catches on right away. He leans back and looks up at Eliot with a small, slightly apologetic smile. “I know I can’t keep you there past Sunday evening, you know, at the latest, but... before that, as long as you want to stay? I don’t want to, um, impose on your time, or presume...”

Eliot quiets him by ducking down for a kiss. “I’d love to stay for the weekend, if you’ll have me.” He lets his fingertips smooth up into Quentin’s hair and gently pulls him in to lean against his shoulder. “But I will need to get a little work done, at some point. Is it okay if I bring it along?”

“Yeah,” Quentin relaxes into Eliot’s arms. “Yeah of course.”

They end up kind of... skipping lunch, mostly, to kiss in Quentin’s office. It doesn’t get very heated, even though Eliot can feel his own desire for Quentin simmering gently beneath the surface, but what it is, is... _intimate._ Warm and slow and sweet, and _so_ intimate. Quentin’s kisses... _god._ They make Eliot feel so... so much less afraid. Like, if this is what it feels like, to be known by this man, then... then he wants to be known. 

Eliot manages a couple more hours of serious work, eating lunch at his little desk in the big, bright, airy filing room of the administration building. He gets his report organized, packs up his notes and laptop, and cheerfully wishes everyone a good weekend before heading back to the guest house. Thinking about what he wants to bring, he sends Quentin a quick text to check whether it’s all right to take an Uber to his house—who knows how gossipy the Uber crowd is? Eliot’s trying to be careful. Quentin sends back a smiley face and a thumbs up, so they’re good.

He’s had plenty of time already to select outfits for this evening and the next couple of days, but he doesn’t want to do anything so obvious as taking an overnight bag to Quentin’s, so Eliot carefully folds the clothes and tucks them into the bottom of his big market basket, instead, and covers the stack with a pillowcase. He’s giddily happy, with a warm thrum of anticipation under his skin. He changes into a dark shirt for this evening, a blue-violet with a paisley pattern, and his navy trousers again, then he remembers to pack his apron.

With everything hopefully squared away, Eliot calls a car to take him to the upscale grocery where he and Quentin stopped last week. He tries not to go crazy, picking out groceries and wine. He’s going to make puttanesca for Quentin, some salads, and maybe a quiche... maybe bake some bread? This place has a bakery, too—he buys a pair of lovely lemon tarts made with real lemon curd and sprinkled with coarse sugar. 

Finally, Eliot does something he’s been wanting to do since his first day in Kampala: he selects flowers for Quentin. He takes his time choosing them. They’ll have to fit in the top of his basket, for the sake of discretion. He wants something beautiful. Peonies would be perfect, but it’s autumn in Uganda, not those three weeks of early summer when they’re in bloom in the States... Eventually, he finds something he likes: a soft, subtle bouquet with green-pink-violet African proteas and soft pink and white ranunculus and roses. He has them trimmed and wrapped in brown paper, and buys a small green vase to hold them, in case Quentin doesn’t have one. 

Back in the Uber, he gets everything organized. The basket, with the flowers tucked in; two brown bags of groceries; his attaché. It’s a bit much to carry all at once. When the driver drops him off at the bottom of the path to the cottage, Eliot tips her generously and waits for the car to disappear and then texts Quentin to ask for help carrying everything up. 

He’s got the bags and basket moved up by the treeline by the time Quentin comes around a bend in the path, a couple of minutes later, with a big, beautiful smile on his face. Once again, it takes every shred of willpower that Eliot can summon not to kiss him right there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a chapterlet this week, friends, but next week will more than make up for it. Hope you're enjoying the romance!


	12. Chapter 12

Quentin has had his head in the clouds for most of the afternoon. He doesn’t regret making out with Eliot in his office—not one iota—but it left him wanting more _._ He keeps thinking about the feeling of Eliot’s beard under his fingertips, the softness of his lips, the sound of his breath... 

Fortunately, Quentin’s Friday afternoons are pretty light on serious responsibility anyway, so he’s had plenty of time to daydream. He picked up a sandwich on his way to his one important appointment, left some weekend instructions for a couple of his patients, and headed to the TB wards for a briefer-than-usual visit before walking home in the sunshine along the greenery-lined road, where he let his mind drift, layering his recent memories with some _very_ nice flights of imagination about things he’d like to do with Eliot.

It’s not too much trouble to tidy a house as simple as the one Quentin keeps. It seems like a good idea to treat this evening as a date, so after a shower and a fresh shave Quentin puts on a slim white button-down and a pair of his tighter grey slacks. Checking his appearance in the mirror, Quentin rolls up his sleeves and slides on his loafers. A wristwatch, and a leather belt... casual date attire is probably right, he hopes? He’s a little nervous, but this seems about right.

After he dresses, Quentin calls Ted on his cell phone, to let him know that he won’t be able to Skype tonight. 

“Oh yeah, you got big plans, huh?” Ted asks. Quentin can hear the ring of the cash register in the shop—he’s caught him at work. 

“Eliot’s coming over here,” Quentin tells him. “He wants to make me dinner again, and...” he pauses, absurdly, like he needs to say this extra-quietly even though he’s in his own living room, “he’s going to be spending the night.”

“Oh ho ho! Ooh la la!” Ted says. He’s ridiculous, and Quentin can’t help but grin. “Good for you two! You know this is a date, right? Tell me what you’re planning to wear.” 

They go through a whole rigmarole about whether Quentin’s outfit is enough, and he lets Ted remind him to put on music and open some wine while they’re cooking. It’s very sweet and well-intentioned, if a bit silly.

“All right, well,” Quentin finally tells him, “he should be here soon, so...”

“Well, don’t sit here talking to me! Go get yourself in a good romantic mood. Think about smooching Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome. You two have a nice night, and you can talk to me tomorrow.” 

“Thanks, Ted.” Quentin is adjusting the front curtains and trying to see down the hill. “I love you.”

“Love you too! Have fun doing things I wouldn’t do!”

“Oh my god.” Ted is laughing at him on the phone. “Good night.”

#

When Eliot texts that he’s down on the path, Quentin practically scrambles to get out the door to go meet him. Eliot has his arms full of grocery bags. His smile when he sees Quentin is beautiful—full and open and radiant. Quentin is smiling too, and he ducks in and gives him a quick side hug.

“Hi! Should I take those?” 

“Sure, yes,” Eliot laughs. Goodness, he’s lovely when he’s happy. “I’ll get the basket.”

Quentin takes the bags and starts to lead them up the path to the house. 

“So,” Eliot’s voice sounds from behind him, “I hope you like red sauce? I wanted to make you pasta. Is puttanesca okay?”

“Yeah, that sounds amazing.” 

“I’ll make a light green salad to go with it—maybe there’s something in your garden that you’d like to add in? I’ll need about half an hour to get the sauce going.” 

Quentin gets the front door open and holds it for Eliot. “Honestly, that sounds great. Thank you for coming, I’m so glad you’re here.”

Eliot stops on the stoop, right in front of Quentin, and gives him a very soft, very fond look, with a little smile that wrinkles the corners of his eyes. Finally he says, “Me too,” and looks down, and steps sideways into the house.

_Oh... wow..._

Quentin feels like reality has just shifted around him a bit, like he imagines it might feel to brush against another dimension. The way Eliot just looked at him... He tries to remember what he was supposed to be talking about, and gets there after a couple of moments.

“So um, I think I have some tender greens that would be nice added to a salad, or maybe even basil, unless you think that would clash with the sauce? It’s too late in the season and too hot for, like, cucumbers or peas, but there are always carrots, and I may have a few small green beans...”

Eliot has now taken the bags out of Quentin’s hands and set everything down on the table. Quentin looks up at him, standing very close. He swallows. Eliot is looking at him with amused fondness; his eyes are... really beautiful. Suddenly, Eliot curls a long arm around Quentin’s waist and pulls him in, setting his other hand, large and warm, on the side of his neck. 

It feels like... like a dial has been turned all the way down, in Quentin. He relaxes into Eliot’s touch automatically, and his rambling brain just shuts off— he’s so relieved. He takes a slow breath and looks gratefully up at Eliot, who smiles at him, playful and sweet, before he bends down to kiss him. 

“Here,” Eliot says, releasing a much more relaxed, slightly euphoric Quentin a couple of minutes later, “I brought you something. I’ve been wanting to do this... i hope you’ll like them.” He reaches into his basket and unfolds brown paper to reveal a bouquet of delicate flowers, which he places in Quentin’s hands. He’s surprised, this is... it’s been ages, since anyone has given him flowers. He holds them carefully and lifts them up to smell— really lovely. Quentin’s eyes feel a little misty. 

“Thank you,” he says. “They’re beautiful.” 

Eliot is keen to arrange them for him, which suits Quentin just fine. He sits at the nook bench as he watches him carefully trim the stems over the sink and settle the blooms into their vase. When he’s finished, Eliot sets the arrangement on the table where Quentin can see it before he starts unpacking his groceries. Quentin takes a moment to enjoy them. The small blooms outnumber the larger, showier flowers, but are special in their own ways, with their delicate cup shapes and ruffled petals, and the colors are beautiful together. It makes Quentin feel appreciated, to be given something so lovely. He gets up from the table and stops Eliot with a hand on the small of his back, and when Eliot turns around, surprised, with jars of tomatoes in his hands, Quentin goes up on his toes to give him a quick kiss. 

“I love the flowers,” he says against his lips. Then, dropping back to his heels, “Can I do anything to help? Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Only if you’d like to join me.” Eliot sets down a jar and runs his fingertips beneath Quentin’s jaw and then bends to kiss him again. 

Quentin opens a bottle and pours two glasses while Eliot begins to cook, then remembers Ted’s advice and goes to put on a record. He picks out _The Best of Sam Cooke,_ which had been a nice surprise when he found it in one of Kampala’s little everything-shops. It’s light and fun and a little romantic—this should be perfect. When he comes back in the kitchen Eliot is slicing kalamata olives, with his apron on. He has onions and garlic cooking in the pan. 

“What else goes in there?” Quentin asks, giving the pot a stir and smelling the pungent steam it’s giving off. “I’ve never made this.” 

“Well...” Eliot’s voice gets softer when he’s preoccupied, Quentin has noticed. It reminds him of warming honey, the way it becomes more translucent and liquid. Eliot, oblivious to these musings, has begun cutting up something tiny, his fingers curled up beside the moving knife. He continues, quietly, “Minced anchovy filets go in next, and crushed red pepper, so that aroma is about to change dramatically. Hold on...” Quentin watches as Eliot slides the anchovies off of the blade of the kitchen knife into the hot olive oil. “Give them a stir, please? Then stand back, this part can be hard on the eyes.” As Quentin steps back, Eliot brushes the red pepper from his palm into the pan and whirls it around, then heads to the sink to wash his hands. 

“It’s not traditional, but I like to add some sliced mushrooms,” he says as he scrubs. “Then the tomatoes go in, olives and capers, and a little oregano, and it can just simmer.”

Quentin is enchanted, watching Eliot cook—his long fingers scooping up vegetables and rubbing fresh herbs, and the graceful way he moves around the kitchen. He sips his wine, leaning against the counter by the back window, and tries not to stare. Eventually, Eliot asks him to grab whatever veggies he wants from the garden for the salad—he’s brought some nice lettuce and a shallot, and is whipping up a white wine vinaigrette. 

“Wait, wait...” Eliot says as Quentin is headed out the back door with a bowl. He reaches a large, warm hand around Quentin’s ribcage and pulls him in sideways for a kiss, then smacks him on the butt on his way out the door and flashes him a cheeky grin when he yelps. 

Quentin makes his way into the garden with a big grin on his face. He can hardly believe Eliot is here to spend the whole weekend with him and is in his kitchen making him pasta right now. He likes him _so much._ And that soft, fond look Eliot gave him at the front door, and the flowers... Quentin takes a deep breath, not letting himself get overwhelmed. He’s grateful for Jane and Ted, helping him relax and enjoy how good this is. 

When he opens the back door, Eliot is standing over the stove and softly singing along to _You Send Me,_ stirring a pot with steam rising up behind him. His singing voice is lovely: a gentle, smooth tenor. Quentin feels enraptured, watching Eliot cook and listening to him sing; for the first time, he thinks _oh, I don’t want to let him go._ Shaking his head to pull himself back to the present, he sets down the vegetables he picked and walks up to slide an arm around Eliot’s waist and cuddle up beside him, like he had in Eliot’s kitchen when they made the cake. Eliot rests his free arm around Quentin’s shoulders and finishes the song, _“youuu-u-u-u send me, honest you do, honest you do, honest you do...”_ He leans in and kisses Quentin on the forehead. 

When dinner's nearly ready, Eliot suggests that they see whether he can fit at the table. He manages to wedge himself in on the bench, and it does work, sort of, but it fits him more like a writing desk than a table to share a meal. 

“I think we should explore our other options,” Quentin tells him with a slight smirk. “You look like you’re getting ready to take an exam.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Eliot says thoughtfully. He splays his long fingers out and brushes them over the gold-flecked formica surface. “I’m sure I could either eat _or_ take an exam here. But if you joined me... sweetheart, where would you put your legs?”

Quentin laughs and peeks under the table; Eliot is not wrong. He does have an idea, though.

“Would you like to use this as a workspace this weekend? For your report?”

Eliot considers his hands and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

They bring their dinner out to the front stoop again, careful of their glasses of wine, setting extra dishes just inside the doorway; it takes a bit of coordination, but it works. It’s so good, too. Eliot has crumbled feta over the penne; the sharp, creamy cheese balances the rich spice of the sauce, and with the delicate salad, and the wine... it’s like being in a very nice restaurant, except that this is personal—it’s just for them. 

The feeling of Eliot’s thigh pressed against Quentin’s is as grounding as the food and the smooth concrete of the stoop that they’re sitting on. As Eliot looks far out over the hillside toward the horizon Quentin turns, (subtly, he hopes,) to take in his profile. His features are strong but so elegant, like they were carved by a sculptor. Quentin imagines gliding his fingertips over his brows and cheekbones; his high-set, marvelous, prominent nose; the gentle slope of his lips; the deep cleft of his chin and sharp angle of his jaw. Eliot is so handsome and so incredibly graceful, and Quentin knows that he is very, very taken with him. He feels quite lucky, still, to find himself in Eliot’s affections.

Before he can be caught staring, Quentin leans a little into Eliot’s side and turns back to the clouds and sinking sun. “This is wonderful. How did you learn to cook like this?”

“Well, this dish I learned for Margo.” Eliot sets down his fork and reaches behind them to get a sip of his wine. “Although,” he says more slowly, “I’ve been cooking for a long time, for various reasons.”

“Tell me about it?” Quentin asks.

“Well...” Eliot sounds like he’s making a decision about what he wants to say. He glances at Quentin, a bit apologetically, and looks back out over the hillside. “My grandmother let me cook with her, my mother’s mother, when I was a kid. At home, I wasn’t allowed—too unmanly. You know. Like singing. Or reading.”

“Jesus.”

Eliot laughs softly, “Oh yeah, he was wrapped up in all of it, too. But anyway, at Gran’s it was different.”

“She accepted you?”

“She did. And she loved me. So I learned to make biscuits and gravy and pork chops and how to bake pies. If you ever need a four-thousand calorie diet to feed farmers at harvest time, I’m your man.”

Quentin laughs at the joke and Eliot glances sideways at him and grins before taking a bite. He’s a delight. _Oh, if only,_ Quentin thinks _._ He wraps his arm behind Eliot’s shoulders and gives him a squeeze. 

“She passed away when I was thirteen, so cooking took a hiatus for a while. Picked it back up when I got out of there. When I got together with Mike—that’s my abusive first boyfriend—nothing I could make was sophisticated enough for him, but that may have just been a control thing.”

Quentin rubs his hand softly over Eliot’s back. “That sounds like it’s probably right. Do you cook for yourself?”

“Mhmm,” Eliot nods, finishing his bite. “I started picking up more techniques in college—partly just to spite Mike, I’m sure. But it was also for the sake of indulgence, and because I enjoy cooking for, i guess, the art of it? And I still don’t think those are bad things, at all. But, well...” He pauses again, like he’s trying to order his thoughts, or decide how much to reveal. Quentin leans his head sideways onto his shoulder for a moment, and finally Eliot continues. “Back then I didn’t take very good care of myself, beyond the facade, you know. I don’t think I genuinely thought I was worth it. I know I didn’t expect to live very long.”

“Oh, _Eliot,”_ Quentin puts his arm around his shoulders again and squeezes even harder. “Darling, I’m sorry.”

Eliot blinks a few times and the corners of his lips curve up into a slight grin. Apparently he doesn’t mind being called “darling,” which—thank goodness, because that just sort of _happened._

“Thank you. It’s okay, I promise—I got myself sorted out, years ago. Cooking’s a creative outlet, but it’s also self-care, now.”

“It is for me, too,” Quentin admits. “It’s kind of a big deal for someone with, you know... my condition.”

Now Eliot, no doubt following Quentin’s lead, wraps an arm around _his_ shoulders for a brief squeeze. “You manage to, though. Even living alone.”

“I do. That hasn’t always been the case, in my life, but yeah. I’m um... I’m mindful about it, now.”

“Well, thanks for letting me cook for you.” Eliot turns and catches Quentin’s eyes and grins, and it’s extremely hard not to stretch up the little ways between them and kiss him. Instead Quentin kind of just... smiles back at him, and hopes Eliot can see how much he wants to, in his eyes.

“Honestly, you’re welcome to. You’re great at it, and it makes me feel really good. Y’know... special. Cared for. And I um... I like watching you cook, too.” 

Quentin ducks his head. That was probably a bit much. He lets his hair hide his face a little, but Eliot reaches over and tucks it back with his fingertips, tips his chin up. He’s grinning softly. “I have a few more ideas for things I’d like to make this weekend.” 

“Okay. I can do some, too. I mean, you don’t have to, you know, cook all weekend, or anything.”

“Oh?” Eliot’s eyes flash with subtle mischief. “How else shall I spend my time? Do you have any ideas?”

Quentin feels a little bit hot all of a sudden, but he meets his eyes. “One or two.” 

They sit there on the stoop, bowls on their laps and with the sun going down through the trees in front of them, and just look at each other, playful and intense, with their secret between them. Quentin can feel the warmth in his cheeks but he doesn’t care; he’s meeting Eliot’s eyes and they’re both grinning because _they know,_ obviously, and this moment of heat between them is too delicious to look away. 

Finally, Eliot cracks a wider smile and Quentin feels himself let out the breath that he was holding, and Eliot reaches behind them and hands Quentin his glass of wine, then takes his own. He puts his arm back around Quentin and holds out his glass. “To the weekend.”

“To the weekend,” Quentin agrees. He clinks their glasses and drinks to that.

After they finish eating, as the sun is sinking and the breeze starts to pick up, Eliot scoops up the bowls in one hand and the wine glasses crossed by their stems in his fingers with the other, and rises gracefully off the step in one fluid movement. 

“I brought a little something for dessert,” he says, “from the bakery at the market. Can I tempt you back inside?”

 _Twist my arm,_ Quentin thinks. He can hardly wait to go back in the house with Eliot, but he tips his chin up and looks at him with an eyebrow raised. “Are you going to tell me what it is? If I’m going to miss this sunset...? They _are_ all a little bit different...” 

Quentin struggles not to giggle as Eliot waves the glasses in the air, then says, loftily, “And ruin the surprise?” Quentin gives him a challenging little smile, and Eliot continues, “There is fruit involved... and sugar.”

“Well, if that’s the case...” Quentin rises and takes the bowls from Eliot, brushing his nails along his palms, and finally lets himself laugh as he heads through the doorway and toward the kitchen.

#

The lemon tarts are bright and rich, lemon curd set over mascarpone cream in the pastry, with coarse sugar that sticks to Quentin’s lips. They’re settled on the sofa, where they can still see the deepening sky from the front window, and Eliot was not joking, clearly, about being comfortable with indulgence. He breaks a bite off of his tart and feeds it to Quentin with his fingers, and then leans in to kiss the sugar from his lips. Quentin loves it. The sharp fruit and the sugar, the brush of Eliot’s fingers followed by the softness and heat of his lips... he might be in heaven. 

Eliot pulls away and Quentin lets him—he’s probably trying to be a gentleman and let Quentin finish his tart—but the next time Eliot kisses him Quentin slides his fingers up the back of his neck into his inky brown curls and holds on, not wanting to stop. What he really wants is _Eliot._

Eliot doesn’t seem to mind. He presses a large, warm hand around Quentin’s ribs and kisses him back, tender and sweet with sugar. Quentin could just... he could just kiss him forever. He nibbles at Eliot’s lower lip and Eliot opens more for him, deepening the kiss—exactly what Quentin wants. He kisses Eliot with all of the warm desire that’s been building in him, and when Eliot moans deep in his throat, when he sets the dessert on the table and raises his hand to rub the pad of his thumb across Quentin’s jaw instead... Quentin takes the initiative once again and swings up over his lap. 

It’s not a bad pattern to have, he decides, gliding his fingers along Eliot’s cheekbones and licking against the velvety heat of his tongue: Eliot feeds him a fruity dessert; Quentin climbs up on his lap. It’s still surprising that Eliot _wants him there,_ but from the way he groans it’s obvious that he approves. They kiss like Quentin’s been longing to—eager, and unreserved. Eliot’s kissing is so sensual, deep and tender and erotic. This time, when Eliot begins to kiss down his neck, Quentin doesn’t stop him. Instead he tips his head back as Eliot mouths beneath his jaw and kisses his way down under his collar. 

“Eliot...” Quentin says, half a breathy moan as the man undoes a button and noses into the top of his shirt. Quentin reaches down for his face and pulls him up into a searching kiss as he does what he wanted to do that first time he was on his lap—he presses against him, rubs his chest up against Eliot’s, and grinds down on his lap. 

“Oh, _Quentin..._ god,” Eliot gets out, before he’s being kissed again. Quentin reaches for Eliot’s tie, loosens it with his fingers, and starts pulling the lengths of silk through the complicated knot. It makes a satisfying noise, like a cross between a hiss and a zip. Quentin is definitely, _obviously_ going to be doing this again. He ducks to kiss along Eliot's throat as he zips the last of the knot apart, then carefully undoes the top two buttons while Eliot presses the pads of his fingers into his hips.

“Hey, um, sweetheart,” Eliot starts, his voice gentle and breathy. “Your curtains are still open and it’s getting dark. Should we close them? Or go... uh... elsewhere?”

Quentin does not want to leave his lap at all—they just got _started. “_ I know, you’re right, but I just...” he says, with a hint of a complaint in his voice before he interrupts himself by kissing Eliot, “don’t want to...” he kisses him again, more deeply, and Eliot whines a little, “have to _move.”_ He grinds up against Eliot’s hips to emphasize his point, and feels the hard press of Eliot’s erection against his own, through their trousers. That’s perfect, and all the more reason to stay where they are. But. “Don’t suppose you can just close them by...” he kisses him, “magic?” 

Eliot laughs. “Alas, no. But that would be a little hot, wouldn’t it?”

“Mhmm, very.” Quentin mouths at Eliot’s neck, beneath his ear where his fingers are once again in his curls. “But you’re already very hot, so.”

One more long, deep kiss, and Quentin climbs backwards off of Eliot’s lap and pulls him to his feet. “You’re right, I’ll close them. But, um. Bedroom?”

“Oh definitely. Bedroom.”

With the curtains drawn and a candle lit Quentin’s room feels smaller than it does during the day, warm and close. There’s something about being held and kissed by Eliot when they’re standing, when Quentin has to go up on his toes and Eliot helps hold him up with an arm around his waist while he stoops slightly to reach his mouth. It feels like... he feels so wanted, and like he can just let go, and _good god,_ being held up and kissed by this tall, gorgeous man, it’s _such_ a turn-on. Quentin feels like he just... melts. Into Eliot’s arms, against his mouth. He _wants him,_ he wants him so much, but he also wants Eliot to... maybe... take over? 

Eliot, once again, seems to read Quentin like a book. He backs him slowly toward the bed, eases him up to the center, reaches down and slides Quentin’s loafers off and drops them off the side, and then climbs up on his knees to hover over Quentin's lap.

“Hold still, sweetheart,” Eliot says, and something in Quentin goes _oh yes._ He holds still, eyes on Eliot’s face as Eliot hovers above him, his weight pressed deliciously into Quentin’s thighs, and carefully unbuttons Quentin’s shirt with nimble fingers. 

Quentin takes in the dramatic shadows on Eliot’s face from the candlelight, cast across his forehead by his loosened curls and wrapping around the planes of his cheekbones and brows. His long eyelashes cast their own shadows over his fair skin, glowing golden in the warm firelight. Eliot is beautiful, graceful, so incredibly sexy in a lithe, otherworldly way—he has so many of the qualities that Quentin likes in a man. Quentin’s can feel his heart pounding as he leans back on his palms, holding still.

Eliot pushes Quentin’s shirt back over his shoulders and down his arms behind him and holds it there and Quentin can’t help it— he takes in a sharp breath and his pulse picks up at the feeling of being bound. 

“Oh?” Eliot grins like a cat, “do you like that?”

“God, yes.”

“Well...” he hums, “we’ll have to revisit that. But for now, I want this off of you. Lift up.”

They get Quentin out of his shirt, leaving him in his white undershirt, and Eliot rakes his fingernails over his nipples, making Quentin shiver, before he lifts it over his head. 

Quentin tips his chin up, hoping for a kiss, and Eliot bends down to give him one. He feels the texture of Eliot's beard, the smooth softness of his lips, the edges of his teeth, sucks at his tongue... finally Eliot laughs softly and pulls away. 

“Help me out of this, please.” He pauses to untie his shoes with deft movements and takes them off, then climbs back up over Quentin’s outstretched legs. 

Quentin tries to breathe slowly as he carefully unbuttons Eliot’s vest and then his shirtfront and cuffs. God, he loves doing this. He slides them down Eliot’s arms and off, then runs his fingertips along the carved arches of his clavicles, over his lightly furred chest and down his arms. Finally, Quentin twists his fingers in Eliot’s and lets out a long, deep breath. The anticipation is exquisite. It feels like the very air between them is vibrating.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” Eliot asks. He takes a hand back and rubs his thumb up the side of Quentin's neck, then cups his jaw in his hand.

Quentin looks up at Eliot. His eyes look like clear amber glass in the candlelight, ringed in sepia. So beautiful. “I want you to let me put my mouth on you,” he says, looking into those eyes, “and I want you to fuck me.”

Eliot’s pupils widen and he grins slightly. He keeps eye contact with Quentin, but rises up on his knees and begins to unbuckle his belt. “That’s a fine plan, and I’m inclined to agree...” he says softly, and then pulls his belt quickly from his trousers with an audible _crack._ Quentin gasps, his heart pounding. _Fuck,_ that was hot. Eliot is still looking in his eyes, warm and intent and with a small, indulgent smile on his lips. “...but not yet.” 

Eliot moves forward on his knees until he’s right up against Quentin, then slides down to sit on his lap, their chests pressed together, and bends to kiss him. _Oh,_ it feels amazing, the soft heat of his mouth and the touch of his skin, and the insistent, hot, hard press of him against his lap. Quentin takes a hand off the bed to wrap around Eliot’s waist and slide up his back, feeling his warm, smooth skin and tracing the long muscles beside his spine. God, he’s perfect. They’re basically only kissing, and Quentin already feels like he’s half out of his mind, caught in the current of heat and passion and sensation and beginning to float away.

Finally, Eliot gets his knees under him and rises up, and Quentin trails his mouth down Eliot's chest and over his stomach. He watches as, inches from his face, Eliot nimbly opens the slide-clasp of his trousers, slides down the zip, and lets them fall down around the tops of his thighs. He’s wearing navy silk boxers that are doing very little to hide the shape of his erection—Quentin can feel the heat rising up his core, and his mouth watering.

Eliot strokes his thumb along Quentin’s cheek and across his lower lip, then hooks the fingers of his other hand into his drawers and lowers them, freeing his cock. “Do you want this now, baby?” he asks.

Quentin can barely manage to make words happen. “Y... _yes_.” He nods.“...please.”

The flat of Eliot's thumb is still against Quentin’s lower lip. “Open for me,” he says, and slides it inside to rest on his tongue. It’s all Quentin can do not to suck, but he lets his jaw drop, easy, just enough.

After Eliot threads his fingers into Quentin’s hair and cups the back of his head with one large, warm palm; after he lets his thumb slip from his mouth and rub against his bottom lip; the first moment when Eliot slides his cock, heavy and velvety, into Quentin’s waiting mouth... Quentin lets his eyes fall shut and his _whole body_ shudders. 

He loves it. _Jesus,_ Quentin loves everything about sucking cock, and Eliot’s is phenomenal—long, (like everything about Eliot,) uncut and fairly thick and finely-formed... Quentin finds it fantastically erotic, and all the more wonderful because it’s _Eliot’s_. As soon as he gets him on his tongue, the heat and taste of him and his jaw stretching around him, his rambling, nervous brain goes quiet and he just _feels._

Quentin zones out into a truly blissful erotic space, somewhere at the crux of wanting and having, as Eliot feeds him his beautiful dick and he takes it, works it with his tongue and his lips and relaxes his throat and tips his head back, inviting Eliot to give him more. 

“Quentin...” Eliot murmurs, a low rumble in his chest. “Look at you, baby.” 

Quentin slowly lifts his eyes and looks up at Eliot, rising up above him while cradling his head. He’s a hell of a sight, with his pecs tight and his nipples dark in the candlelight, his broad shoulders and finely sculpted arms— just _looking at him_ makes Quentin groan, deep in his throat, and Eliot gasps and grins and rolls his head back at the sensation. 

Finally, Eliot stills him with his fingers tightening in his hair and Quentin gasps, then moans with pleasure from the pulling. 

“Sweetheart,” Eliot asks. He laughs, getting the words out. “Do you want me to _push?”_

Quentin has to pull off to answer, and a very real part of him mourns the loss of Eliot’s dick in his mouth for even a moment, but he figures it will be worth it. “Fuck, yes,"he gasps, “Eliot, _please._ Fuck my throat. I can take it.”

If Eliot is startled for a moment he quickly recovers. “Undo your pants.” His tone is gentle but it’s still a command, and Quentin loves it. “Stroke yourself, baby, I want you right there with me.” He caresses the shell of Quentin’s ear with his thumb. “We’ll go again, we have all night.”

Eliot waits, watching as Quentin hurries to comply. “Are those too tight? Just get them off.” Quentin kicks out of his trousers as quickly as he can and takes himself in hand. He leans back slightly on his other hand and looks up at Eliot, still looming gorgeously over him with his trousers around his thighs. Eliot’s gaze is tender but heated. “Good,” he says, and the praise sends another shiver through Quentin.

Eliot threads his fingers through Quentin’s hair at the back of his head and tightens them, gives him a little tug. “That good?”

Quentin gasps but he nods frantically. “Yeah. So good.”

“If you want me to stop, grab my arm, here, okay?”

“Yes.”

Eliot bends down to kiss him again, heated but very tender, then he finally lets Quentin have his cock again. He’s careful, starting slowly, letting Quentin suck and swirl his tongue around the head, get used to the stretch, relax his throat again and get blissed out on how fantastically erotic everything about this is, how good it feels. When he finally tips his head back against Eliot’s hand and leans into his grip, Eliot gets the message and begins to really take control, sliding his cock deep into Quentin’s throat and pulling it back, his hand tight in his hair... good god, it’s the most delicious feeling. It’s overwhelming; Quentin feels nearly delirious, like he might actually shed tears, from how good it is. 

“You’re doing so well, baby,” Eliot’s voice is a bit raw, but his tone is soothing. “You’re so good. Don’t forget yourself. Touch yourself for me.”

Quentin had forgotten, actually. The feeling of his hand is nothing new, but with Eliot’s cock in his throat it’s _entirely_ new. He focuses on Eliot—on the intensity, the sensation, doing the best he can—and before long Quentin cedes control entirely, his hand moving over himself automatically but the rest of him absolutely euphoric to be so beautifully, marvelously used. 

Eliot is getting shaky, but his thrusts are still careful. He brings the hand not in Quentin’s hair up and cups it gently around his throat, and Quentin groans deep in his chest at how much he loves that, the pressure and heat of Eliot’s large hand. He feels held, and safe, and even though he’s floating and not far from orgasm, he’s aware enough to be surprised by how much he _trusts_ Eliot. He trusts him. This is beautiful.

Eliot’s thrusts begin to speed up and Quentin can hear him breathing hard. “Quentin, baby, oh my god... you’re amazing... _fuck_... _so_ good. Do you... do you want me to pull out when I come? I’m... I’m close.”

Quentin shakes his head slightly, trying to signal _absolutely not._ He moans around Eliot’s cock again and speeds up the motion of his hand over his own dick, now swelling hotter and harder in his hand. He raises his eyes to look up at Eliot, his skin glistening with sweat in the golden light, and the heat of Eliot’s gaze when Quentin meets his eyes is staggering. Eliot’s breath catches in his chest; he thrusts twice more and plummets over the edge, loudly groaning, “Oh, fuck... _Quentin!”_ and curling around him, pulsing hard in his mouth and coming down his throat. 

It’s so hot, _oh jesus god... fuck, he’s so hot..._ Quentin takes him in hungrily, desperately, moaning in his chest as Eliot clings to him and Quentin’s body lets go, overwhelmed, as he comes, spilling over his hand. Eliot somehow manages... somehow manages to hold him up, to keep him safe and make sure he can breathe while he comes with Eliot’s cock still heavy on his tongue, Eliot’s hand tight in his hair. 

Eliot gently pulls out, after, softens his grip to cup the side of Quentin’s head and wraps his other arm around him, sinks down to his lap and pulls him in against his body and holds him tight. Quentin gets his arms up and around Eliot’s back and just melts into it, his head against his shoulder, feeling them both breathe. 

Eliot rubs his hand in firm circles over Quentin’s back. “Quentin,” he says softly, “that was... you were...” He trails off.

“Yeah,” Quentin tries to add, “ _god,_ you were...” It takes him a moment, a couple of breaths. “I loved it. So good.” He squeezes Eliot tighter and turns his head to kiss his chest, brimming with affection.

“How does your throat feel? Can I get you water?”

“Okay. Um. Yeah, yes. Please.”

“All right, sweetheart,” Eliot says gently. “Stay right here. I’ll be right back.” He backs off of Quentin’s lap, off the bed, and fastens his pants—it feels completely absurd that he still has them on, but in, like, a hot way?—and he slips from the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. 

Quentin flops backward onto the bed. _Hot damn._ He scrubs his hand up over his face and through his hair. He’s still coming back to his body, which is buzzing with endorphins and a little shaky, and he reminds himself that Eliot will be right back. That’s good... it’s good. He wants him back, his grounding touch and also, just... _him, Eliot._ The dear man who just gave him one of the best submissive experiences he’s ever had. His... what? His lover, obviously, but? But... but _Jesus,_ he’s starting to feel like more than that, isn’t he? Quentin needs to ask Eliot, at some point, how long he thinks he’ll stay in Kampala. He really wants as much time with him as he can get.

Eliot glides back into the room with a tall glass of water, with ice, and a washcloth. Tailored trousers and no shirt is a _very_ good look for him, and Quentin grins at him as he approaches the bed and sits down on the edge. He rolls over onto his side and ducks down the bed to wrap one arm low around Eliot’s hips and take the water glass with his other hand, taking a sip. The cold water feels fantastic on his hot throat, and he lets himself drink quite a bit more. 

“Ahh, thank you,” he groans, and flops back onto the bed again, smiling. “Come join me?”

“Oh, gladly. Here, let me...” Eliot settles on his belly next to Quentin’s lap, then uses the washcloth he brought to clean first Quentin’s fingers and then his stomach and cock. It’s warm, which is a nice touch, and it’s all so unexpected and sweet that Quentin kind of can’t believe it. When Eliot is done, Quentin reaches for his hand and pulls him up the bed and kisses him, tender and slow.

Eliot slides down and lays with his head on Quentin’s shoulder, his arm draped across his chest. It feels... so nice, really, to hold him like this. He gets the impression from his stillness that Eliot might feel... a little vulnerable, or something?

“Eliot,” he murmurs, “that was incredible. You were perfect. Thank you for, you know, going with it.”

Eliot turns his head to kiss Quentin’s shoulder. “Oh,” he purrs, “it was distinctly my pleasure.”

“I’m sorry if it was too much, um. I know that was, like, way under-negotiated...”

Eliot rubs his fingers up into Quentin’s chest hair and tips his head to look up at him. “Oh no sweetheart, perish the thought.” He slides up until he’s right on top of Quentin, hovering over his lips and pressing him gently into the bed, then bends down and kisses him sweetly. “It’s an honor to be trusted with that side of you. I loved it.” He ducks his head and nibbles gently beneath Quentin’s jaw, which... it feels good, and also _tickles_ and makes Quentin squirm _._ “Besides, baby,” Eliot says, “you were so hot I thought I might expire. Just illegally, preposterously sexy.” 

Quentin smiles but rolls his eyes in protest. “I didn’t even _do_ anything.”

“That is a long way from accurate, my lovely little sub-slash-deep-throating-expert.”

It’s a good thing that Eliot is busy kissing Quentin’s collar bones rather than looking right at him, because there’s nothing he can do about how much that makes him blush. “I mean,” he stammers, “I’m not _always_ quite that. Um. _Subby.”_

Eliot giggles against his chest. “No, no. I noticed.” He nuzzles into his chest hair and settles back down with his head on Quentin’s chest, and Quentin manages to spare a thought for how this full-body cuddling is absolutely wonderful. “Quentin, please don’t worry, sweetheart. I like every single side of you that I’ve seen. If you want to talk about kink things we _totally_ can, but...” Eliot punctuates what he’s about to say by turning to kiss the center of Quentin’s chest again, right over his beating heart, “...if you just want me to take over and let you slip into sub space once in a while, I’m down for that. Like I said, it’s an honor.”

Quentin hums and bends to kiss Eliot’s head and holds him tight. He hasn’t often encountered such tenderness or care when it came to this, much less anyone who regarded his submissive side as some kind of privilege, or something. Eliot treats him like he’s... not fragile, but precious.

“So, um,” he says a while later, after he’s scratched Eliot’s back and they’ve shared quite a few soft, lazy kisses and Eliot’s run his fingers hypnotically through his hair, “can we talk about bondage?”

#

They do indeed talk about it, and then afterward Quentin finally gets Eliot out of those trousers he looks so good in and they curl up under the bedsheet and make out until they’re both hot and hard and hungry for each other again. The mood is light, sensual, and careful when Eliot ties Quentin’s wrists to the headboard with his necktie. It’s so exciting, and so much fun, honestly—Quentin thinks they’re both a little giddy as they grin while they check the knots before they go back to kissing. 

Eliot is very forthcoming about finding Quentin with his arms tied above his head “as sexy as hell, baby, _fuck,”_ which... well, that is just fantastically lucky for Quentin. The feeling of being bound by his lover is insanely erotic. It feels so good to be able to trust Eliot with this.

They take their time, this time, languorous and breathy, Quentin moaning softly as Eliot touches every bit of his body, uses his hands and his mouth on him, keeps him settled with his weight holding him down. Eliot lets Quentin kiss him and suck on his neck and his fingers, bite at his shoulder and chest and lave over his nipples with his tongue. Quentin feels like a fine musical instrument, with all of the care and artistry that Eliot brings to making him feel good and opening him up, and when Eliot takes Quentin’s cock into his mouth while he’s circling his long, elegant fingers against his prostate, a cascade of color and light blooms behind his eyelids as the pleasure becomes overwhelming and he quickly has to ask him to stop, lest he come before he can even get Eliot inside him. 

Laughing gently at the slight relief, Quentin gasps and tries to find his breath. Eliot is still rubbing circles inside him, and it feels so, so good, heavy waves of beautiful sensation rolling through him. Quentin pulls at the tie that’s binding his arms and arches up off the bed with Eliot’s fingers deep in his body, and when he looks down Eliot’s grin is full and beautiful. There’s that look, that open, savoring enjoyment that Quentin finds so captivating—that it should be happening _now,_ here where Eliot is essentially giving Quentin something that _he_ wants... it’s remarkable, and suddenly Quentin just wants to give him _everything,_ wants him inside of him, wants to kiss him and never stop.

“Eliot,” he pants, “I’m so ready for you. Please.”

Quentin doesn’t know where to put everything he’s feeling, this rush of awe and gratitude and tender, desperate affection—but he does know what his body wants. He focuses on his bound wrists; on the strain in the muscles of his arms and chest as he pulls against the headboard; on the sensitive, sharp points of his nipples as Eliot grazes them with his nails. He focuses on the smattering of freckles over Eliot’s broad shoulders and his wild curls and soft lips as he hovers over him and leans down to kiss. And, when Eliot finally presses his marvelous, hard cock inside him, Quentin focuses on the stretch, the intensity, the _pleasure_ of taking him in. He lets out a long moan at the brilliant relief of it— _finally._

Even with his hands bound, Quentin manages to move against Eliot, to pull him in with his legs and help create a rhythm, rolling and undulating on the bed as he flexes tight against the restraint with his arms and shoulders. They’re kissing—they’re kissing deep and passionate and uninhibited and Quentin feels the strength of his body, the strain in his muscles as he gives Eliot everything he’s got, as he urges him on, draws him in. The hot weight of Eliot on top of him, pressing into him, pressing him into the bed... Quentin _loves it._ Eliot feels incredible. He’s breathtaking.

“God... fuck... _Eliot_...” Quentin gasps, breaking the kiss for just a moment. “I want it _hard_. Please. Just. Hold me down and _just fucking rail me_. I want to _feel_ you... I want to feel you _tomorrow._ ”

Eliot looks him in the eyes and Quentin feels like his entire consciousness is pulled into those wide, dark pupils ringed in fire-glowing amber. “Oh my god. _Quentin,_ how are you real?” he asks, and then Quentin stretches up to claim his mouth again.

It’s exactly what he wants, what he seems to need, rearranging something inside Quentin as he’s transported by the pounding motion of their bodies, slick with sweat; by their ragged gasping breaths and the way they’re shouting together, amazed and undone. 

_“Fuck, Quentin, I...”_ Eliot eventually gasps out. He has to move his arms, bringing one up beside Quentin to hold the back of his shoulder and support himself on an elbow as he reaches between them to wrap Quentin’s leaking cock in a strong, warm hand. It interrupts their rhythm, but they quickly regain it, and they’re both so close that it doesn't matter at all. Eliot strokes Quentin from root to tip and thrusts into him _hard._ It doesn’t take long—only a couple of incandescent, glorious minutes—before Quentin’s body pulls tight like a bow and just _explodes._

 _“Eliot!”_ Quentin shouts as the bright, sharp currents of an overwhelmingly strong orgasm rip through him, overtaking him as his body strains against the ties, lighting his nerves up all the way to his fingers and toes. Eliot's fingers dig into his shoulder and it feels fantastic, the bite of his nails and the sharp, deep thrust of his cock, then his answering shout of _“Oh my god, Quentin!”_ as he collapses onto Quentin and grips him tight while he comes, and comes, and comes. Quentin holds Eliot tight to his body, _inside_ his body, with his legs wrapped around his hips, and Eliot keeps his long arms firmly around Quentin’s back and they just _hang on,_ holding each other tight and breathing hard as the aftershocks roll through them. The strength and the weight and the intimate press of Eliot’s body feel so good, and the way he holds him—just... the most wonderful thing, so safe and right and _theirs._

“Let me kiss you,” Quentin shudders, some time later when Eliot stirs and is maybe regaining his sense. “Let me kiss you.” Eliot does, he lifts his head and noses in for a kiss, sweet and clumsy and slow.

“Here sweetheart,” Eliot breathes, “let me just...” 

He pulls carefully from Quentin’s still-shaky body and rolls to the side to take care of the condom, then makes his way to kneel at the head of the bed and untie Quentin’s wrists. Eliot supports Quentin’s forearms as he gets them loose, then gently lowers his arms before cuddling up against his side and beginning to slowly squeeze and rub his hands. The tingling isn’t too bad—his wrists are a little sore and he’s going to feel this all over in the morning, but it was one-hundred percent worth it. 

Quentin turns his head and leans up to kiss him again. He can feel himself smiling, and awash with affection. “Eliot, my god.” He laughs a little. It’s a bit overwhelming, but not in a bad way. “You’re so gorgeous. And you’re so good to me, darling. That was... you were magnificent.”

Eliot hums at the compliment, demurring and possibly even a little shy, and kisses him again before wrapping him in his arms. “Baby, I don’t even know where to begin,” he murmurs. “That was spectacular. Let me take care of you, okay? You’re going to be sore.” 

“I’m guessing so are you.”

“If so, then so be it.” 

Eliot begins gently massaging one of Quentin’s shoulders, then moves down his arm to his hand. It’s so sweet and kind, but Quentin protests a little. “I really want to just hold you and kiss you, and like, maybe fall asleep on you?” He twists his head to kiss Eliot’s shoulder.

“Baby, I’d love that,” Eliot says, soft, beside his ear, “but aftercare is important.”

Well, fair enough. Quentin hums in mild agreement, then while Eliot’s rubbing his other arm he has an idea. “Hey,” he says, “I have a tea that would be good for our throats. Let me make some.”

Eliot moves around him and looks at him fondly. “I’ll go get us a washcloth and start the kettle. You rest and I’ll be right back.” This time, he walks out of the bedroom completely nude, which feels as decadent to Quentin as it is remarkable. There’s a gorgeous naked man walking around in his house late at night— what planet is he on?

Quentin takes a moment. That was... just. _Wow._ He feels wrung out and a bit stunned and a little high, and, for the first time in a while, he’d really like a cigarette. But no—he doesn’t keep them around. If Quentin doesn’t want Ted to smoke, he has to not-smoke right along with him. And of course, he wouldn’t want to encourage Eliot to smoke, either... it’s a passing desire, and Quentin does his best to dismiss it, taking a few deep breaths and blowing them out slowly to mimic the feeling. 

As soon as Eliot reappears in the room, still naked and carrying his basket and with a lovely, soft smile on his face, all of Quentin’s mundane thoughts about smoking go right out the window. He looks striking in the candlelight, graceful and light like some kind of sylph, but Quentin knows how solid he is. Just having him back in the room, after five minutes, makes him feel warm and buoyant. 

Eliot kisses Quentin and sets his basket on the bed. “Pajamas? Or no? I brought some in case they felt apropos.” He lifts a pair of burgundy silk paisley pajama pants from the basket. “They do double as loungewear.” Eliot raises a playful eyebrow at Quentin. 

“Mhmm, those are nice,” Quentin says with put-on thoughtfulness. “But um, _not wearing things._ Also nice.” He shoots him a heated little smirk and then laughs when Eliot rolls his eyes and tosses his pajamas at him. No pajamas it is, apparently—everyone wins.

They do a little bit of cleaning up, and fix the bedding. Quentin invites Eliot to use his closet to hang up his clothes. He’s very happy to put his arms around him and manage to kiss him a few more times before he goes to see about the tea. Quentin can’t _quite_ bring himself to walk around his kitchen in the nude, so he pulls his boxers back on, stumbling a little and hopping on one foot on his way out of the bedroom while Eliot grins at him, lovely and bright.

When he gets to the kitchen to start the tea Quentin realizes how thirsty he is and downs a big glass of water immediately, but he’s also _hungry._ He piles some leftover pasta into a bowl, remembers to add the cheese, and carries it to the bedroom with two forks and two big mugs of herbal tea, using his cookie sheet as a tray.

“So I don’t know if you're hungry,” he begins, “but I’m like, shaky-hungry? So I brought us food. And this tea has, um, chamomile and honey and lemon and a little mint, among other things, so it’s really soothing.” 

Eliot helps him settle the tray on the writing desk, then he’s pulling him into a very nice, immediately relaxing hug and kissing his head. “Oh yes, please,” he says. 

They share the bowl of pasta, sitting cross-legged together on the bed, and Quentin keeps glancing up to find Eliot looking at him with big, warm, soft eyes. He seems to enjoy the tea, humming as he sips. Quentin feels the heat soothing the sore muscles of his throat, and remembers the feeling of Eliot’s hand, large and firm and warm, wrapped around the front of his neck and holding him steady. _Dear god,_ that was incredible. 

When they finally settle into bed together, Quentin feels so tender. This is really different than it’s been, with lovers he’s had in the past. Maybe _he’s_ different, taking Ted’s words to heart, trying to be open in some way he hasn’t been in a long time, but it’s also that _Eliot_ is different. He’s special... more than special. Quentin kisses him sweetly for a long time, enjoying the beautiful feeling of his arms around him, then settles against him with their legs tangled together and his head on his chest. He feels remarkably safe. 

“Eliot,” he murmurs, feeling the deep pull of sleep.

“Mmm, yes?”

“...'m so glad I found you.”

He feels Eliot's arms tighten around his shoulders, and sinks into darkness.


	13. Chapter 13

Eliot wakes up early, with the batik bedspread draped over his hips and Quentin snug against his chest and wrapped in his arms, a perfect little spoon. The patterns of the fine African cloth fan out like wide-branching leaves in golds, oranges, and cooler greens, spilling across the bed before them in the hazy morning light. The window is open behind the fluttering curtains, and the room is still chilly with night air, but Quentin seems to run warm; Eliot enjoys the heat radiating from him as he adjusts his fingers under his ribs and breathes in the faint woody scent of his hair. 

Quentin seems to be peacefully asleep. Luxuriating in just holding him, warm and solid and soft, Eliot lets his mind drift to last night. 

Good god... that was intense. Both times. The way Quentin just... handed himself over, asking Eliot to take control, asking for what he wanted... Taking care of his partner like that, it’s something Eliot can handle, it’s something he _likes_. And also, holy fuck, the _sight of him,_ down on his knees... and later, tied to the bed, rising up off of it... there are some mental images Eliot may never forget.

Eliot smiles into his hair as he contemplates the enigma that is Quentin. He’s so cute and shy, intelligent with a wry sense of humor... sweet, and kind, and nerdy in a very adorable way... But then _in bed_ he becomes this deliciously wanton, amazing, insatiable lover and it’s just... it’s like a dream, honestly. The term “sex kitten” flits through Eliot’s mind, and... okay, its definitely a little bit ridiculous to apply that term to someone their age, an actual, responsible doctor, no less... and yet, it’s also... not _inaccurate?_

Eliot tightens his arms around him, feeling terribly affectionate and a bit possessive, if he’s honest, and the sex kitten in question stirs from his sleep. 

“Mmmmm,” Quentin hums, snuggling back more firmly into Eliot’s arms. “You’re here.”

Eliot kisses the back of his neck, salty and warm. “I am.”

“Finally.” Quentin’s voice is soft and sleepy, like the rest of him. “I’ve been fantasizing about this.”

Eliot is a little surprised. “About waking up with me?”

“Uh huh. All week.”

Eliot hums his assent and cuddles Quentin closer, kissing his hair behind his ear. Wildly, he thinks that maybe they should _always_ do this. He feels his heart rate pick up, just from that unguarded thought, the desire creeping up on him when he’s naked and relaxed and curled around Quentin. He takes a slow, deep breath, _noticing the feeling,_ giving it a little breathing room, trying to be a fucking adult and not just deflect it with innuendo or humor (thank you, _Joy—_ more-honest, more-vulnerable-Eliot feels slightly terrifying and potentially much less fun. He sincerely hopes the trade-off will be worth it.)

So. He snuggles around Quentin, this lovely man whom he’s feeling like it _might_ be nice to wake up with every morning, and says, “I like it too, sweetheart,” and kisses his shoulder before relaxing in to maybe drift back off to sleep.

Quentin has other ideas, it seems. He turns over in the circle of Eliot’s arms and noses in for a kiss—soft, sweet lips and a hint of scratchy morning stubble. _Oh,_ it’s _nice,_ and Eliot kisses him back happily, gentle and unhurried, until Quentin pulls away just enough to speak. 

“Normally I am, just, an enormous fan of morning sex...”

“Mmm, good to know,” Eliot kisses him again, soft and playful, “but?”

“But I’m um, sticky and smelly, from getting so sweaty last night. And also I’m... yeah. Sore.”

Eliot leans back to look at him; his lovely brown eyes look apologetic. Is he blushing a little? Eliot feels a tug of worry. “Are you all right, Quentin? Did I hurt you?”

Quentin’s eyes go wide for a moment. “Oh—nope, nope, not at all.” He smiles and buries his face in Eliot’s neck, embarrassed. “I’m good, it’s mostly my muscles. I know what I can handle.” 

It’s adorable that he would be bashful now, but Eliot isn’t going to tease him. He _likes_ how well Quentin knows what he wants. Instead he laughs softly and pulls him in tighter. “You were amazing, sweetheart. I was amazed.”

Quentin relaxes against him, then after a few moments Eliot draws up to kiss him again, open and warm. Eliot just... loves kissing Quentin. Loves how much he loves it. Loves the wide, labile bow of his lips and the soft velvet of his tongue. He sinks into it happily, sliding his fingers into Quentin’s soft hair, letting himself just float on the beautiful feeling, spread out on the smooth sheets of Quentin’s bed while the morning sunlight paints the bright curtains of his bedroom like glowing jewels. 

Eliot is a little dazed and a bit bemused when Quentin draws away after a while and grins and looks up at him from under his eyelashes. “So,” Quentin begins, “I’m thinking, um, coffee? Showers? I’ll make breakfast? Maybe I can tempt you back in here later in the day?”

Eliot scratches his fingernails through Quentin’s chest hair then flashes him a smile and grazes his nipples, making him draw in a quick breath and giggle. He’s so cute. “I can hardly wait.”

#

Eliot gets the first shower—or tries to, anyway. He’s never felt quite so much like a giant in Quentin’s cozy little house as he does ducking under the showerhead that hits him at eye level. He manages to get clean, however, and does the little bit of shaving that neatens up his beard, and when he walks into the kitchen with just a towel wrapped low on his hips, the way Quentin looks at him and stops breathing and leans back against the countertop for support... well, that would be worth about a hundred awkward showers. 

Eliot grins a little bit as he accepts a cup of coffee. “Thanks,” he says, adding milk and a little of the sugar that Quentin’s set on the counter. 

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Quentin’s voice is a little raspy and Eliot smiles into his coffee cup. “How do you, um, like your eggs?” 

Eliot gets dressed in a light shirt and slacks and brings his apron in to wash last night’s dishes while Quentin makes them a nice vegetable hash, which he serves in his wide stoneware bowls drizzled with chili sauce and topped with soft fried eggs. He’s opened all of the windows in the house to let in the cool morning air, but they really can’t both fit in the tiny booth, so they take their bowls outside and sit on the low stone wall at the back of the garden. 

The air smells nice, more like trees and flowers than dust and city smog. The food is delicious, and the company’s certainly excellent. Eliot lets his leg settle against Quentin’s.

“This is so good,” he says, “thank you.”

Quentin smiles softly and hums, leans against his shoulder. “My phone tells me it might start raining tonight,” he eventually says, “so I probably need to tidy up the garden. Maybe I could work on that while you’re busy with your report?”

“Could I work on it with you?” Eliot remembers how charming and peaceful it was last week, watching Quentin working out here. He’d hate to miss it. “I promise I’ve gotten over my distaste for all things farm-adjacent enough to enjoy gardening.”

Quentin laughs and treats him to a very pretty smile. “Sure, let’s do that.”

It turns out that southern Uganda has been due for its second rainy season of the year to start back up for a little while. Some of the things that Quentin is growing do well in the rain, but some really do not, so it’s like a small harvest, gathering up all of the squash into a basket and beans into smaller baskets and bowls. The onions have to be dug up, as do the ground nuts—East African vernacular for peanuts—but apparently some of the root vegetables can stay in the ground for now. Quentin digs and weeds while Eliot picks beans and small, sweet tomatoes, then when they’re done they add mulch to help save the topsoil. All in all it takes a couple of hours, and Eliot was right—it is charming, and gentle, despite being moderately physical work. 

“Can you use all of this?” he asks as he carefully stacks winter squash in a basket. “Is there a hidden pantry around somewhere? I can’t imagine a root cellar would work here.”

“No,” Quentin replies. He’s rubbing soil off of onions. “I’ve been thinking about trying to build some kind of dry storage box behind the house, but it still gets pretty hot during the day, I don’t know if it will work. Maybe for some things. But there are a bunch of families about a quarter of a mile down the road, crowded into some small flats? They can use the extra food, they’re always glad to have it.”

Eliot nods and swallows around a lump in his throat. That kind of thoughtful generosity seems like just a default state of being for Quentin. He’s just kind... seemingly without even thinking about it. Despite how this activity reminds Eliot of having grown up on a farm, the memory that comes vividly to mind now is from after he left. 

“It’s uh, it feels kind of sadly ironic,” he says, a halting start to trying to share something personal. Maybe he’ll get better at this some day, with practice. “The first time I encountered people just, you know, _sharing_ with each other wasn’t in the town near where i grew up—there it was more... um, ‘individualistic’ would be a kind way to put it.” Quentin looks up at him softly and nods to let him know he’s listening, before turning back to the onions. 

“It was when I first got to New York, where everyone is supposed to be so aloof. Do you know what ‘stone soup’ is?”

Quentin gets a funny, far away look on his face, then shakes his head slightly. “Haven’t heard that term in a while. But yeah.”

“For a little while,” Eliot begins, focusing on his fingers in the bean plants, “when I was eighteen, I slept in this dilapidated little hole-in-the-wall theater, down in the lower bowery. The people who ran it let, you know, theater street kids crash there. The owners lived upstairs, but backstage they set up a little kitchen area and there was always a pot of soup on the burner and you could eat, you just had to wash your own bowl. If you had something to add to the soup, great—if not, it was okay. They didn’t expect anything from us, either. I’d never seen that kind of generosity before.” 

“It sounds like it stuck with you.” Quentin’s voice is thoughtful and earnest. “I’m really glad you found that, when you needed it.”

“Yeah... me too. It was more like it planted a seed in me, I think. For years later.”

Quentin looks at him thoughtfully and seems to make up his mind about something. A moment later he says, “Arielle helped in a soup kitchen for a while—there was a lot of need in Philly, before we moved.” 

Quentin has never talked about his late wife, not since telling Eliot about her on that first night. Eliot feels strangely honored—he wants Quentin to continue. “Oh? Tell me about it.”

“It was just,” he pauses, considering, a small furrow forming between his brows as he looks at the garden. “I thought of it because it was kind of like that. Someone started it, and then it became, you know, kind of a community effort? People donated food if they had it, or money, or their time—like her.” Quentin adds a couple of onions to the pile he’s making, as Eliot waits to see if he’s going to continue. He does. “She um... she was good at bringing people together. I’ve always been better at helping on a small-scale, you know? Like, focusing on one thing at a time— one patient, or one set of neighbors? Even if there are a lot of them, that’s um, how I work. But Arielle was more of a social person... and just, so smart.” Quentin smiles sadly and shakes his head. “She made sure a lot of people who needed it were taken care of.”

He’s trails off quietly. Eliot waits for a moment, then says, “You sound proud of her. Was that what drew you to working in public health?” 

“Well...” Quentin says, brushing his hands off, “we kind of grew into it together, I guess you could say. We both just, um, wanted to help.” He shoots Eliot a small, apologetic smile and tucks his hair behind his ear, then stands and picks up his basket of onions. Eliot can tell that the conversation about Arielle is over for now; maybe it’s too weird or painful for Quentin to talk about her much. He can respect that. 

“Hey, I’m sorry if...” he begins.

“No, it’s okay,” Quentin says. “I um. It’s just my life, you know? Sometimes I’m sad, a little bit. But I’m really okay, now, almost all the time.”

Eliot steps over to Quentin and holds out an arm and Quentin huffs out a relieved breath and shifts his basket to his hip, letting Eliot wrap him in a hug. “Thanks for sharing with me,” he says softly, his lips brushing against his hair. “For what it’s worth, it’s okay with me if you’re not always totally okay.”

As they pull back from the hug Quentin takes Eliot’s hand and squeezes it, looking up at him. “Thanks,” he says with a soft, dimply smile, and Eliot feels his heart flutter in his chest. “Let's get these up to the back.”

When they’re finally done they wash their feet on the back patio, and that is actually _very_ farm-reminiscent, but Eliot finds he doesn’t mind _too_ much. They take everything inside and stack it up by the sink and around the back door. “Do you mind if I wash up a bit here?” Eliot asks, “I know you haven’t had a chance to shower yet.” He’s already stripping off his shirt to wash the dust and sweat from his arms and neck. He looks over at Quentin and finds him leaning on his hand against the kitchen counter again, his cheeks a deep rosy blush.

“Oh my _god,_ Eliot,” he says, and laughs, ducking his head. 

Eliot grins. It’s... really a lot of fun, having this effect on Quentin. “Problem?” he asks with a wink.

“Oh no, not at all,” Quentin says with a breathy laugh. “Please be my guest.”

Still grinning, Eliot washes up at the sink and grabs a clean kitchen towel. He dries off, meandering over to Quentin, then wraps an arm around his lower back and a hand around the back of his neck and lifts him into a kiss. Quentin melts against him and returns the kiss with more than a little heat and it’s _lovely._ He hasn’t kissed him for hours—this feels like a gross oversight.

Finally, Eliot sets him down and scratches his nails up Quentin’s back, over his shirt. “Have a good shower,” he says to a slightly dazed-looking Quentin, “I’ll set up my report.”

Quentin raises his eyebrows at Eliot and laughs. “Hoo... you are. A little bit evil.” He’s still blushing. 

“Spice of life,” Eliot says, and bends down for a quick peck before shooing Quentin off to the shower with a light smack on his very cute ass.

By the time Quentin is done in the shower Eliot has changed his clothes and made a pitcher of iced tea, a fruit salad, and some little herbed cream-cheese sandwiches, and has his report spread out on the kitchen table. Quentin is smooth-faced and shiny, clearly having just shaved, with his hair damp but neatly tied back and smelling nice— his aftershave is woodsy and sweet, like honeysuckle. He has on jeans that fit him well and a long-sleeved blue tee that suits the warmth in his coloring, and Eliot finds him just beautiful. 

“Hi handsome,” he says, leaning over from his seat on the bench for a kiss. He slides his fingers along Quentin’s jaw, “ooh, very soft.” Smiling, Eliot kisses him again, and Quentin drapes an arm around his shoulders.

“How’s it going?” 

“Oh, I’m just getting started. I made... well, I’d hesitate to call it _brunch,_ as there’s neither a hot dish nor _any_ cocktails. What is it you all say in The Shire? Elevenses?”

Quentin bursts into giggles, “Hey!” and shoves him on the shoulder. He has a fantastic smile when he laughs. 

“Well?” Eliot asks. He wraps an arm around his hips and squeezes, grinning.

“I know but...” Quentin says, shaking and kissing Eliot’s temple, “You shouldn't _say_ it.”

“Go have a look. I used up your ice but refilled the trays.”

Quentin makes his way to the kitchen counter beside the stove. “Oh wow, you made fruit salad?”

 _Way to a man’s heart,_ Eliot thinks. _Or a hobbit’s._

Quentin ends up bringing the chair from his writing desk into the kitchen so he can sit at the end of the table and they can nibble while Eliot talks him through the structure of his report. He didn’t expect him to be so interested, but Eliot is happy to show it to him; everything about the way the hospital runs is complex, and there’s a great deal to cover. While he’s dealing in large part with statistics, Quentin is able to shed light on the human side of what goes on at Mulago. The new Women’s and Neonatal center, for instance, was desperately needed: a response after high rates of maternal and infant mortality at Mulago gained international attention. Director Pickwick and his fellow administrators would clearly prefer that Eliot’s report focus on how well the new program is working—and he will cover it, in context—but he’ll only be able to attract resources for the parts of the hospital that need them if he focuses on those needs. 

After they go over the outline, Quentin cleans vegetables at the sink and gets the fresh beans into the fridge while Eliot works on making detailed checklists of which documents he still needs from each department and program. It’s all starting to really take shape, but there’s still a lot to do.

Quentin brings him a glass of tea after a while and sits back down, so Eliot pushes back the laptop to take his hand, then brings it up to kiss the backs of his fingers. “I don’t have to work on this all day,” he says. “I have plenty of time.” 

Quentin smiles the determined little smile that means he’s about to do something courageous, the one Eliot saw before Quentin kissed him on the rooftop and that he’s seen several times since. He says softly, “I’ve been meaning to ask how long you think you’ll be staying in Kampala.”

Eliot thinks about making a joke about the report, but he’s struck by a sudden need to be sincere with Quentin. He squeezes his hand and looks into his earnest eyes. “I’m approved for up to three more weeks, and I’m planning to take them.”

The unspoken question hangs between them: _if you want me to._ Eliot watches Quentin’s warm brown eyes for a sign, his breath caught in his chest.

“Oh, thank god,” says Quentin, apparently coming to himself, then it all comes out in a rush: “I was afraid you were leaving after this week. I mean, if you had to, you know, with your work and everything, but I just... um.” His voice turns soft, like he’s barely allowed to say it, “I don’t want you to.” 

Eliot holds his gaze, and his hand. Charmed and relieved, he murmurs, “Sweetheart, I don’t want to, either,” and he pulls Quentin toward him by their joined hands and leans over to kiss him. 

He expected a brief, soft kiss—a reassurance, maybe—but instead he meets Quentin’s lips and it feels like his whole heart swells up inside his chest as they’re drawn together. He tastes the fruit on Quentin’s lips and feels the heat of his tongue and is just about overcome with warmth and affection and _relief._

Quentin holds on tight to Eliot’s hand and stands up from his chair, pulling Eliot with him. Eliot scrambles to get out of the booth while they’re still kissing, and somehow he manages it. He ends up holding Quentin up at the end of the little table, the desk chair clattered to the floor, and kissing the daylights out of him because Quentin wants him to stay and Eliot wants that too, and now they’ve both said it. He feels almost giddy. 

Quentin kisses Eliot passionately, wrapping himself around him, then pulls away and catches his breath. Eliot feels him lean his forehead against his, still bent down to meet him. “I um, kind of wish this table could hold us,” Quentin says with a soft laugh, “But it definitely can’t.”

“Bedroom?” asks Eliot.

“Bedroom.”

Eliot backs Quentin through the front room, kissing him deeply. He leads them under the hallway arch and through the doorway, past the flowers on the dresser and the writing desk and right up to the bed, where he lifts Quentin up and tosses him to the middle and climbs over him, leaning down to kiss away his gasping laughter. He sinks down on top of him and they tangle their arms and legs, weaving their fingers together over their heads and trying to toe off their shoes, kissing like they can’t believe it. Eliot can hardly believe it. They get to have this, to _keep_ having this, for three more weeks into the fall.

Quentin grasps Eliot’s hands and hooks his feet around his knees and suddenly rolls them over, putting Eliot on his back and smiling down at him. “Nice maneuver, Dr. Coldwater,” Eliot grins, and Quentin laughs and relaxes on top of him and kisses him again. 

It’s so good, and Eliot gives himself over to the sensation of being pressed into the bed and kissed, feeling the weight of Quentin’s strong, compact body keeping him in the present. He feels the soft, persistent press of Quentin’s lips and the warm curl of his tongue and breathes in his clean scent, sweet flowers and woody musk. Eliot loves this. He can feel himself getting hard, as desire sparks and crackles within him, and the feeling of wanting Quentin mingles dizzyingly with Eliot’s relief at _having him,_ as Quentin’s touch lights up his nerves.

Quentin’s kisses are deep and heated and erotic—it’s spectacular and very hot, and... well, Eliot _has_ been low-key teasing him for hours. And now he’ll be happy to give him, probably, anything he wants.

He nuzzles his nose against Quentin’s, weaves his fingers gently in his hair. “What do you want, sweetheart? What can I do for you?”

Quentin seems to take a breath to speak, shakes his head minutely and kisses Eliot instead. Then he draws back, takes another breath and looks him in the eyes. Eliot could just sink into that soft, clear, warm walnut brown. “I want you inside me,” Quentin says softly, “but, um... gentler?” 

Eliot feels himself smile. He can do that; of course he can do that. “Okay,” he says, and kisses Quentin again.

What Quentin suggests next, his voice soft against Eliot’s ear, sounds _fantastic,_ but also, once again, stunningly intimate. He asks to sit in Eliot’s lap, and ride him, and kiss. Quentin also _stops_ kissing him and sits up to have a serious little discussion about whether they need condoms, because Quentin has been tested and was celibate for years, which is good enough for Eliot, and it turns out that Quentin’s comfortable with Eliot’s sexual and testing history too, so they decide not to use them, which... fucking... _jesus._ It’s been years since Eliot did that. 

Eliot looks at Quentin, who seems to have come over a little bit shy, tucking his face in against Eliot’s neck. This is the man who, only last night, wanted Eliot to face-fuck him into sub-space, and then asked to be tied up and pounded through the mattress, and then made him a nice cup of tea for his throat and fell asleep on his chest. He’s wonderful and a bit baffling and Eliot _adores_ him. And now, they’re about to have what sounds like very tender, very intimate sex siting on his bed in, once again, the middle of the afternoon, and... _yes,_ Eliot is _fully_ on board with this. And it is also _a lot._ He gives himself a moment and takes a deep breath, pulls his heart out of his throat, and reaches for Quentin. When Quentin looks up at him Eliot wraps his hand around the back of his neck and thumbs over his cheekbone, and draws him in to kiss his sweet, soft lips. 

Quentin seems relieved as he kisses Eliot warmly, and Eliot tilts his head slightly to deepen the kiss and _that_ really seems to do it: Quentin opens for him, melts softly into him, moans a little, deep in his throat. There it is—that connection, that lovely, hot, slightly needy side of Quentin, and Eliot... _god,_ he just wants to take care of him. 

“Let’s get us out of all this, okay baby?” he asks against his cheek, and Quentin nods and reaches for Eliot’s shirt buttons. It’s simple to lift Quentin’s tee-shirt off of him, sitting across from each other in the middle of the bed, and then Eliot has access to all that wonderful skin. He glides his fingertips over Quentin’s clavicles, the points of his shoulders, the creases between the muscles of his arms. He takes in his lightly furred chest and his dusky nipples... he’s eager to get his mouth on his chest, to feel his chest hair against his nose and his nipples beneath his lips, but Quentin is doing his own erotic survey of Eliot, fingers gentling up and down the planes of his chest and stomach. Eventually Eliot catches Quentin’s eyes. 

“You’re beautiful, you know.” 

Quentin shakes his head shyly, looking down—whether he’s denying it or just embarrassed Eliot isn’t sure. He just wants him to know. “It’s true. You are. I try to keep an open mind, but I do have a type, and you’re absolutely it.” Quentin looks at him with softness and perhaps a touch of incredulous wonder. “Gorgeous,” Eliot says.

Quentin reaches out to cup Eliot’s jaw in his fingertips and Eliot mirrors the movement as he kisses Quentin, slow and passionate, then wraps his hands and arms around him and pulls him up onto his knees on the bed. He needs to get Quentin out of his jeans, and he is _absolutely_ going to make a production out of it. 

“Stay just like this, baby,” he says, and Quentin draws in a quick breath and nods, standing up on his knees with his hands on Eliot’s shoulders as Eliot begins to suck and kiss his way down his neck to his chest. _Ah,_ there’s what he wanted, but he only lets himself enjoy Quentin’s lovely, pebbled nipples for a few moments before trailing his lips down his softly furry belly. 

Eliot backs himself up onto his hands and knees. He gets a handful of Quentin’s ass and pulls him forward as he mouths over his trapped cock through his jeans, forcing hot breath through the denim, making Quentin twitch and gasp. He gives him a couple more breaths, a little bit of pressure to make him squirm, before undoing his button with his teeth. It’s a shame that Eliot has to let go of Quentin’s ass, but he’s holding himself up with his other hand as he hovers, shirtless, stretched out in front of Quentin, fully aware of the view of his own back that he’s creating as he opens Quentin’s fly and finally frees him from his jeans. 

He’s lovely, just perfect. Eliot enjoys the sight of Quentin’s hard cock, gently flushed and rising up against his stomach, as he shimmies his jeans down his hips and leaves them taut around his upper thighs. He arches his back as he bends down to bite at Quentin's hip.

"Eliot, oh god." Quentin's voice is breathy and thin above him, and Eliot nuzzles into the seam of Quentin's thigh and his light brown curls before licking a slow stripe up his cock and swirling the head on his tongue. Quentin's hips jerk as he draws in a sharp breath, and Eliot wraps his hand around his hip to help hold him up. This isn't a tease, and Eliot doesn't want him to work for it—some other time, maybe. Now, this time, this beautiful afternoon in this private, secret place that feels outside of time, he just... wants Quentin to feel wonderful.

Quentin gasps when Eliot takes his cock into his mouth, then moans softly as he draws him in, gently working the underside with his tongue and pressing the head along the roof of his mouth. It's fabulous how he's so open—Eliot can gauge how he's feeling by the pitch of his breathy moans and the quake of his thighs. He's starting to learn the things Quentin really likes, what drives him crazy and what lets him relax and just coast, enjoying the pleasure that slowly builds but doesn't take him quite to the edge. 

As Eliot eventually draws away, Quentin presses the pads of his fingers into his shoulders. "Oh my god, I want to touch you," he says, like the words are escaping his chest. 

"Go ahead, touch me," Eliot tells him. "Touch me anywhere." 

He feels Quentin’s hands, wide, strong, and very warm, pressing down the sides of his back. It's an exquisite feeling. Eliot is already very turned on, and the heavy slide of Quentin’s hands over his skin lights him up like soft sparks as he ducks his head to let Quentin stretch out over him and dig his fingertips beneath his belt. 

Letting go of Quentin's hip, Eliot kisses his way back up his body, walking forward on his knees, and sucks on his neck beneath his jaw before Quentin captures his mouth in a hard, searing kiss while quickly undoing his belt. 

Quentin has Eliot out of his pants in a flash, managing to push them over his knees and off and also get rid of his own jeans, all while kissing him, his tongue deep in his mouth. It’s quite a feat of coordination for a man that Eliot has seen get caught in his own clothes multiple times, and he decides to be flattered by how motivated Quentin is as Quentin kisses him deeply and puts his hands _all over him_. 

_God,_ he’s so lovely and perfect—the thought comes to him again, seems to be rising up from some deep part of his consciousness. Eliot sits cross-legged in the middle of the bed and settles Quentin in his lap, kissing him slowly, deep and soft. He threads the fingers of one hand into Quentin’s hair and wraps the other, his long fingers barely reaching, around both of their cocks. Quentin moans deep in his chest as Eliot begins to stroke them together. 

It’s so good, it really is; it feels fantastic, and it’s incredibly erotic, and if they got both of their hands involved... Quentin’s sturdy, square palm and strong fingers wrapped around them... made everything slick... _holy fuck._ That isn’t the plan, not this time, but Eliot makes a very clear mental note that he’d like them to revisit this position. 

“Lube?” Eliot asks, before he can get too, too, _too_ worked up, and Quentin reaches to grab it from his desk. It’s easy for Eliot to get his hand exactly where he wants it; he has outstanding leverage like this, reaching down and back between Quentin’s legs to massage his perineum and his ass, getting him slick and relaxed with his whole hand sliding over the lovely contours of his body before he begins to finger him open. 

Quentin opens for him easily, relaxing around his fingers with some kind of fantastic bottoming expertise that Eliot is beginning to understand is just how Quentin _is,_ rocking gently on Eliot’s palm and kissing him lazily with little panting breaths. Eliot watches Quentin’s eyes flutter shut when Eliot ghosts his fingers over his prostate, and then open again, taking in Eliot’s smile, meeting his eyes with a look that seems half gratitude and half plea before fluttering closed again.

It’s such a pleasure, touching Quentin like this. He so clearly loves it, is so beautifully responsive; Eliot would love to make him come like this, some time, his fingers deep inside him, licking into his slack mouth while he carefully takes him apart. He feels incredibly tender and fond, protective, and very turned on.

Quentin breaks the trance that they both seem to be in by smoothing his palm up Eliot’s thigh and taking his cock in hand, slicking him with lube, and beginning to slowly stroke him from tip to base. _Ahhh,_ it feels... _so_ fucking good. His _hands. Jesus,_ he has strong, steady hands _._ It takes every bit of presence of mind that Eliot can summon not to just float away in the beautiful feeling of Quentin’s touch. 

He kisses him, intently, trying to ground himself, stilling his fingers against Quentin’s rim. 

“Do you feel ready, sweetheart?” he asks, low and quiet, and then lets himself kiss him again. 

“Yeah,” Quentin says softly, pressing his cheek against Eliot’s. “Yeah, I do.”

It turns out that Quentin knows exactly how to do this, rising up on his knees so he’s pressed against Eliot’s front, and it’s an uncanny and slightly thrilling thing to have Quentin looming above him, to tilt his head up to kiss his neck, and for a moment Quentin’s nipples are _right there_ so Eliot kisses them, too. Of course.

“Oh my god, Eliot,” Quentin says, arching his back but pressing further into Eliot’s lips. That is a _good_ reaction, so Eliot circles the lovely, stiff nipple with his tongue and squeezes it between his lips, and Quentin moans and bucks against him. 

“Okay, okay, here,” Quentin laughs, and he slides down to kiss Eliot one more time before they line themselves up and Quentin lowers himself, slowly, onto Eliot’s cock. 

Eliot can’t help but gasp at the feeling. _God._ Quentin’s rim is snug around him—he’s hot, he’s _wet_ , it’s phenomenal and Eliot hasn’t felt anything like this in a long time, and it’s _Quentin._ Quentin, pressed up against his chest; Quentin, whose soft hair is grazing his shoulders; Quentin, who is carefully rocking his hips downward until he’s fully seated with Eliot’s naked cock inside his hot, soft body, whose lips are seeking his and whose hands are reaching around his waist and up into his hair. Eliot clings to him, stunned.

“Okay?” Quentin asks.

Eliot, recovering himself, shakes his head and laughs softly. “Sweetheart. I’m much more than okay.”

He helps Quentin get settled with his legs wrapped around his hips, discovers how to tilt his pelvis just right, how he can rock his hips to press up into him, how he can wrap him in his arms and touch him everywhere, how he can kiss him as deeply and endlessly as he wants, feeling the press of Quentin’s chest against his. It’s exquisite.

Quentin’s beautiful African bedspread has twisted underneath them, and the patterns spread out around them like the petals of a huge, abstract flower, ripples of orange and green and gold radiating from beneath them where they hold each other, upright in the center of the bed, as they begin to move together.

Eliot feels enveloped by Quentin, with Quentin’s strong arms and legs wrapped around him, Eliot pressing up into him, kissing him and holding him hot against his chest and his stomach and solid and heavy on his thighs. He focuses on the sensations of his body, all of the places they’re touching, reading Quentin’s body and his breath and moving in him, carefully trying to give him what he needs. He might never have been this _close_ to a person, before, and Eliot feels a swelling glow of beautiful, golden feeling inside his chest, _notices_ it, holds it there, even as he holds Quentin firm in his lap, snug and slick around his cock, beautiful and perfect under his fingertips and his tongue. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs in the middle of kissing him, _“Quentin... Ohh.”_

They take a long time, they _last_ a long time, wrapped up in each other on Quentin’s bed, in the center of the spiral of colored cotton and golden afternoon light. Quentin rides the way that he kisses—deep and slow and languorous, drawing it out, the pleasure building and receding like rolling waves. 

“Oh god, _Eliot,”_ Quentin finally moans, then he leans back on Eliot’s lap, changing their angle and beginning to move with more purpose, his hand holding Eliot’s hip to encourage him. Eliot can look at him now, leaning back in the circle of his arms: Quentin is gorgeous—he looks completely debauched and utterly sexy stretched out before him, pushing his body down to slide Eliot’s cock over his prostate as he rides him. His eyes are dark and intense and his chest heaves with his breath, his muscles tight and his cock heavy and leaking against his stomach. It’s an incredible sight; Eliot feels like he could never look at him enough.

He holds Quentin up around the small of his back and reaches to wrap his other hand around his cock. “This okay, baby?” he asks.

“Yes,” Quentin gasps, then continues, breathing hard, “Harder. please. Will you... come in me? I want you to.”

“Okay,” Eliot manages. “Okay.” He uses the muscles of his back and stomach and rocks up into Quentin, not rough but fast enough to bring himself to the edge, stroking Quentin and watching him as he loses his rhythm, begins to shake and come apart. It’s one of the hottest things Eliot’s maybe ever seen, and Eliot is _absolutely_ about to come, and he feels... _god,_ he feels so tender. 

When Quentin’s breath sticks in his chest, when his cock swells in Eliot’s hand and his body clenches tight around him and he begins to come, the strength of it, the _feeling_ of it is phenomenal... yet somehow for a singular moment before he lets himself go rushing over the edge Eliot experiences clarity, a stunning, searing second of realizing that _this,_ Quentin shaking and coming in his lap, under his hands and in his arms and on his cock while Eliot takes care of him... _this_ is everything. It’s everything Eliot wants. It’s all he needs. 

Eliot comes deep inside Quentin, beautiful waves of pleasure cresting and rolling through him as he holds Quentin tight while Quentin presses hard against him, his body clenching around him. The second that Eliot begins to catch his breath Quentin is kissing him, full and warm and deep. Eliot’s body feels like it’s glowing and his heart may have expanded outside of his chest and... okay, there are tears in his eyes but hopefully Quentin won’t notice them because they’re kissing, they’re kissing and just holding tight for a long time, and Eliot doesn’t want to ever have to let him go. 

Quentin eventually nuzzles against Eliot’s cheek, tucks his face back into his hair and lets out a deep breath. “Let me?” Eliot asks, and at Quentin’s nod he carefully pulls out and reaches for the hand towel on the desk to start to clean them up. Quentin makes a soft little sensitive noise, and Eliot feels impossibly tender and protective—he focuses on that, on Quentin in the moment, ignoring the pounding of his heart. 

Eliot pulls Quentin back with him, onto the tangled spiral of the bedding, and holds him to his chest, just needing the familiar comfort of laying in each other’s arms. He cups his head, resting on his shoulder, and kisses his hair. “That was wonderful, sweetheart,” he says, and then decides to admit, “I’ve never done that before.”

Quentin runs his fingertips along Eliot’s jawline, through his beard, and gently turns his head as he stretches up to kiss him. “Our height difference,” he sighs, settling back on Eliot’s shoulder, “it’s the best.” 

“Mhmm,” Eliot has to agree, cuddling him closer. He doesn’t know quite what he’s going to do with this, the realization that he wants to _keep_ Quentin, to be his... something. His boyfriend? That sounds, actually, kind of silly in relation to how he’s feeling right now, and the thought _boyfriend doesn’t sound like enough_ scares him just enough to kick him into some deep breathing that he hopes is subtle as he holds Quentin tight and tries to _notice his feelings. Jesus._

They do need a shower, unsurprisingly, and sharing Quentin’s teacup-sized tub and ludicrously low showerhead is comical enough, and sweet enough, that Eliot is able to set his _feelings epiphany_ aside and just enjoy it, teasing Quentin just enough to get a rise out of him and then kissing him until he gives in and, after getting thoroughly caught up in making out for a little while, laughs and slaps Eliot on the ass for being a brat. 

#

Eliot ends up making Quentin the quiche he’d planned, mixing the pie crust from scratch with butter cold from the fridge and ice water and cold hands, like he was taught. He’s putting bacon in it along with the gruyere, and artichoke hearts and some of Quentin’s onions. Cooking feels like solid ground—Eliot is still buzzing from frankly some of the best and most intimate sex of his _life,_ trying not to be overwhelmed, putting his whole _deal_ on a back burner and baking the man a pie. 

If Quentin notices that anything has changed, he doesn't’ show it. He gets the bedspread in the wash and then keeps Eliot company in the kitchen, making a salad and letting Eliot ask him all about his taste in music and art. Quentin plays the piano, Eliot learns. He favors romantic composers. He also lets Eliot put his arm around him and steal kisses while his hands are busy with the vegetables. Once the quiche is in the oven he puts on a record and, with only a little cajoling, lets Eliot dance him around the kitchen to Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald singing “Cheek to Cheek.” 

Gathering Quentin up in his arms at the end of the song, Eliot kisses him sweetly and asks, “So, is all the jazz and blues Ted’s influence?” 

“Ha!” Quentin laughs. “He might say so, but no. We have, um, conflicting opinions about jazz. He did introduce me to R&B, though, I’ll give him that.” 

They end up eating almost all of the quiche, saving a couple pieces for breakfast, sitting on the stoop and sipping white wine, because Eliot tried to think of everything. Quentin is so captivating—rambling when he gets excited, gesturing with his hands, eyebrows raised as he talks about early modern poetry. Eliot tries not to get caught staring at him, sure that his heart-eyes and goofy smile will give him away.

“So, wrong era for this discussion, i know,” he begins softly after Quentin has finished making a serious point about the immeasurable effects of World War One on the entirety of Western Art and poetry in particular, “but would you maybe read to me some time, from your volume of Leaves of Grass? I’d love to hear what passages you like.”

He looks up from his wine glass to find Quentin looking at him with a surprised, considering expression, then Quentin swallows and says, “Yeah, I’d love to. Tomorrow, maybe?” Eliot wants to kiss him, but he can’t, out here on the stoop, so he leans into Quentin’s side and catches his eyes.

“I can hardly wait.”

#

They give Ted a call after dinner, since Quentin says he won’t be in the shop on a Saturday and they can catch him at home when it’s around noon in Baltimore. He doesn’t expect Eliot to join in, of course, but Eliot finds that he’s looking forward to it.

“I don’t mind,” he tells him. “Let him see how the paramour is doing.”

They get connected on Skype, Ted sitting at his kitchen table and Quentin and Eliot leaning back on the couch, feet up on the coffee table and Eliot with his arm around Quentin’s shoulders. Quentin didn’t object at all when he put it there, even snuggled in a bit against his side, so Eliot’s going with it. He wouldn’t mind conveying “I adore your nephew and respect him and am taking excellent care of him.” Nothing about mindblowing sex or being an emotional disaster. Boyfriend material. He thinks he can probably pull it off.

“Ah!” Ted says when he appears on the screen, as though he’s just discovered them. “There’s the happy pair! Don’t you two look handsome together, my my...” He moves his glasses up and down on the bridge of his nose, apparently trying to get a better look at them, while Quentin grins like he’s trying not to laugh and rolls his eyes with his whole head. 

Eliot’s beginning to catch on to Ted a bit, he feels. Not that knowing he’s playing up the old-man bit for fun changes, basically, anything.

“Well don’t just sit there being cozy and handsome,” Ted says, “tell me about your weekend. How are you both?” He takes a sip of what looks like coffee and adopts an exaggerated polite waiting expression.

“We’re good, Ted,” Quentin tells him. Eliot can see his face in the little corner box on the screen—he looks relaxed and at home, talking to Ted. Eliot feels fortunate, honestly, to be a part of this. Quentin continues, “The fall rains might start tonight, so Eliot helped me bring everything in from the garden. He’s been cooking for me—he’s a great cook—we worked on his report... well, mostly he did.”

“Woah, slow down there,” Ted says, “you’re going to knock me over with the inherent romanticism of mutual paperwork.” 

Quentin laughs aloud and Eliot nearly does. “Well,” Eliot puts in, “we _are_ trying.”

“He brought me flowers,” Quentin says, still cracking up. He has a wonderful smile.

“You danced with me in the kitchen,” Eliot points out. “That was a long song, too.”

“Yeah,” Quentin confirms. “I mean, it was _Cheek to Cheek,_ but it was twice as long because of the duet.” 

“Ahh, Ella and Louis?” Ted asks, and Quentin agrees and snuggles a little closer into Eliot’s arms, then asks Ted how he’s doing.

“Doing dandy,” Ted assures him, picking up a newspaper from the table. “I’m having lunch with Julia in a bit, so it’s good you caught me. We’re gonna see if we can get today’s puzzle squared away, and start planning for the holidays at the shop.”

“Julia?” Eliot asks.

“Oh, she’s an old family friend,” Ted explains. “Helps me out a bit. Quentin here used to play piano with her.”

“I only just learned that he played,” Eliot tells him.

“Oh ho ho,” Ted says, all dramatic surprise. “Boy, does he play—he’s fantastic! Wish he had a piano, up there on that hill. Eliot, you watch out. You hear him play and you’ll be a goner.”

“Ted!” Quentin protests as Ted laughs, hearty and good-natured. Eliot’s grinning and he can feel a little heat in his cheeks. He’s already _a goner,_ and he raises an eyebrow meaningfully at Ted while squeezing Quentin’s shoulder. 

“Sorry about the puzzles, Ted,” Quentin finally changes the subject, “I know I haven’t been as much help lately.”

“Ahh, pish-posh. Don’t worry about that.” He smiles at them, broad and genuine. “You two carry on with your canoodling.” 

Quentin rolls his eyes again and Eliot gives him a good squeeze and a smile. This is fun, and also he’s perfectly happy to carry on _canoodling._

They finish chatting after a little bit, signing off so Ted can head out to lunch, and Eliot notices that the relaxed, happy vibe stays with Quentin. He seems to feel safe, and comfortable, and at home. He sets his head on Eliot’s shoulder, still cuddled up on the couch, and the feeling of _family_ that Eliot’s only ever felt with Margo, as an adult, is so palpable—once again Eliot feels honored to be let into Quentin’s life. 

“Hey,” he says, quiet, “would you like to meet Margo? She’d like to meet you.”

Quentin turns to look up at him, another soft, considering look. “Yeah, I would.” He gives Eliot a shy-looking smile and reaches up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “But maybe not tonight?”

“Maybe not tonight,” Eliot agrees, and bends to kiss him back.

They cuddle and make out on the couch for a while, in a way that could go somewhere heavier but doesn’t have to, with Quentin solid and soft on Eliot’s lap but not pushing for anything more than warm, wet kisses and the feeling of Eliot’s hands running through his hair. Eliot loves the softness of Quentin’s mouth and sensation of his weight pressing on his thighs, pushing him deeper into the cushions. When he’s in the sunlight, Quentin’s hair reminds Eliot of dark amber honey, the kind you get from buckwheat fields... but here in the darkened house it’s deeper, almost chestnut, and as soft as silk in his fingers. 

“You’re so generous with your kisses,” Quentin tells him at one point, with a quiet little laugh, his fingertips resting on Eliot’s chest. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Eliot sets his forehead against Quentin’s and murmurs into the close space between them, “it is so entirely my pleasure.”

Quentin sits in Eliot’s lap and kisses him for a little while longer, running his nails gently over Eliot’s head beneath his curls, then gliding his fingers around his ears, along his jaw and down his neck, over the curves of his collarbones. He seems to be gently exploring, maybe cataloguing the precise shapes of Eliot’s body while they’re kissing. It’s hypnotic, the soft, meandering touch, and Eliot feels appreciated, enjoyed. It’s... it’s really something, being the object of Quentin’s gentle, focused attention. He wonders what it would be like, if Quentin really, truly knew him, his past and his fears and his dreams, if it would feel _like this_ ... and even as he kisses him Eliot feels an unfamiliar longing, almost a _yearning,_ to be understood by this man, to have the contours of his whole life and heart laid bare, and to have them treated with this kind of care and obvious regard. 

“Hey,” Quentin eventually asks, “can we go to bed?”

“Absolutely.” 

It’s unexpectedly intimate, getting ready for bed with Quentin when neither of them is particularly worked up. Eliot’s touched by the sweet domesticity of sharing a bed, the little rituals, the trust that it implies, but also... 

“Can I undress you?” Quentin asks, bravely looking up into Eliot’s eyes, and... yeah, of course he’s noticed that that seems to do something for Quentin, but it’s mostly been in the heat of the moment, before, whereas now it feels... much more personal. His breath hitches a little in his throat, but he doesn’t tell himself it’s just clothes. Right now it feels, for Eliot at least, like it’s more than that.

“Yes,” he says, and kisses Quentin on the forehead. 

Quentin takes his time, meticulous with Eliot’s shirt buttons, like he’s savoring the experience. He lets his fingertips brush gently against Eliot’s chest as he parts his shirt, standing very close, and the touch feels careful, reverent. He slides the shirt down Eliot’s arms and lays it gently over the back of his chair, then turns to look up at Eliot, his fingertips resting on the waistline of his trousers at the hips. 

“This isn’t too much?”

Eliot smiles at him and shakes his head. “Not too much. Go ahead.”

When Quentin has Eliot down to his silk boxers, his clothes carefully laid aside, he steps closer and sets his hands flat on Eliot’s chest. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and Eliot thinks, if that is what Quentin needs, he can have it. Eliot thinks, _anything,_ and he wraps his arms around Quentin and pulls him in to hold him against his chest. 

Once they’re in bed they curl up in the middle, Quentin half covering Eliot and pressing his face up for a kiss, and then a series of kisses, before settling down with his head on his chest. Eliot feels the lovely warmth and solid weight of Quentin on top of him, and the shape of the muscles of his shoulder where his hand is curved around it in the dark. There’s a breeze coming into the room, fluttering past the curtains and bringing a chill, a change in the fragrance of the air that promises coming rain. Eliot enjoys it, the strangeness of the scent of rain, new to him in this place. When he tilts his head to ask Quentin if he can smell it too he finds he’s fallen asleep, his breathing deep and slow. Eliot wraps them both tight in the blanket, and Quentin in his arms, breathes in the chill, and imagines never having to let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is a piece of music that has become kind of the theme music for this story, as I write: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Rt66iMaFlo. I'm going to have to move to a two week (at least) publishing schedule, due to losing a lot of my creative time, but I promise the romance will continue. Thanks to all of you lovely readers. <3


	14. Chapter 14

When Eliot blinks awake on Sunday morning the room is very, very chilly, and Quentin is very, very warm. There’s a damp thickness to the air around them; the window is open and it definitely rained during the night. Quentin is curled around Eliot like a crescent moon, his forehead against his back and his arm draped over his waist. It’s nice—it’s _so_ nice, bundled under the blanket with Quentin holding him. Eliot waits as long as he possibly can, drifting in and out of a light sleep, before he very carefully slides out of the bed to make his way to the bathroom. 

Glancing at himself in the little mirror over the sink as he washes his hands, Eliot considers what he’s seeing. This is technically the oldest version of himself that he’s ever seen. Is this reflection more mature than yesterday’s? Is it wiser? Do his eyes look softer, or more clear, for belonging to a man who’s realized that he wants a relationship without an expiration date? Does he look more afraid?

His hair is wild from sleep, of course, but that has its own charm. He tweaks it a little bit anyway, and decides to wash his face and brush his teeth while he’s at it. Quentin seems to be asleep when Eliot creeps silently back into the bedroom. The light in the room is dim and cool, giving everything a slight blueish cast as Eliot hurries through the chilly air to slip back into the bed. 

He thinks he should just try to warm up a little bit, under the blanket, and not shock Quentin awake with his cold skin, but no sooner is he back in the bed than Quentin grins softly and says, “Mmmm, welcome back,” and reaches his hand out to wrap around Eliot's ribs and then slides it, strong and warm, up his outstretched arm.

Eliot shudders and leans into Quentin’s touch. “Sweetheart. I’m going to freeze you.”

“No, shhhh,” Quentin says, and wraps himself around Eliot. “I’ll warm you up.”

He’s not kidding. “How do you run so hot?” Eliot asks as Quentin blankets him with his body and nuzzles up against his ear and into his hair. He feels really, really wonderful. Eliot touches Quentin’s bare shoulder blades with the tips of his fingers, but hesitates.

“S’a mystery,” Quentin murmurs, and then kisses Eliot’s neck, open and wet. “Go ahead, put your hands on me.” 

Eliot does. Quentin’s skin is smooth and warm, but what Eliot really wants to feel are the solid shapes of his body under his splayed hands, the ridges of his shoulder blades, the curvature of his ribcage, the strong muscles of his spine as Eliot rubs his hands down his back. The physical reality of Quentin is just... it’s so good. He’s _wonderful,_ and getting to touch him this way feels like an incredible indulgence.

Quentin noses up Eliot’s neck and stretches for a kiss, and Eliot just... sinks into it, feels the soft, wet slide of Quentin’s mouth, his lips and velvety tongue... _god._

“Is this okay?” Quentin asks, breathing a bit heavily with his nose against Eliot’s cheek. “Are you up for morning sex?”

“God, yes. Rising to the occasion as we speak.” 

Quentin laughs and Eliot can tell he’s rolling his eyes, even though he can’t see them. “I guess I asked for that, but it was still awful,” he says, and kisses Eliot again. Eliot smiles and pulls him in tight and squeezes, brimming with affection.

“You like me,” he retorts, gentle and fond.

“Mmhmm,” Quentin agrees, and raises up to flash Eliot a soft, dimpled smile before settling on top of him and kissing him again.

This is just lovely. This is exactly what he wants. Eliot slides his hands up into Quentin’s hair, where he can tighten his fingers in the strands, tilt his head gently to the side and deepen the kiss. Quentin responds with a soft, pleased moan, easy in Eliot’s hands, and opens further to let him in. 

Eliot sinks into the marvelous luxury of kissing Quentin, enjoying his small muffled noises of pleasure and the hot, velvety slide of his tongue, and when Quentin begins to wiggle on top of him, eager for more, he lets his hands smooth, one at a time, down Quentin’s back to slide his boxers down. He helps him shimmy out of them and kicks his own off, too, then gets a good hold of Quentin’s ass and moves his hips where he wants them: right there, lined up just above his own. 

Ahh, there it is. Eliot arranges Quentin on top of him so their cocks are nestled together between them. He’s almost fully hard now, and Quentin is obviously already there— the smooth-hard press of him is delicious. 

They’re so close. Something about the morning, waking from sleep and going right to sex... the weight of the body when it’s this relaxed, sensual and unselfconscious. Eliot holds Quentin by the hips and slides him, beautiful and languid, along the length of his cock.

“Oh god, yeah,” Quentin mutters, and rocks against Eliot. He draws a knee up, to give himself leverage, and Eliot presses his opposite foot into the mattress, and with a delighted laugh from Quentin and Eliot’s hands on his back and in his hair, they’re off. 

Quentin kisses Eliot gorgeously as their bodies move together. _God,_ to be so... _actively_ appreciated, so enjoyed. Eliot marvels at it for a moment, then lets himself simply sink into the deep pleasure of Quentin’s kisses, his soft, strong lips and searching tongue, the way he sometimes smiles while he kisses, his beautiful soft moans and the sound of his breath. 

They rise and fall, press and writhe together there on Quentin’s bed in the dim morning light and cool air, the bedding draped across Quentin’s hips and half-covering them both. Quentin reaches a hand above them to grip one of the bars of the bedframe, giving himself something to push and pull against as he moves over Eliot, and Eliot reaches up to join his hand to Quentin’s around the bar. It’s exquisite, all of the places they’re touching, Quentin's weight on top of him, their mouths and tongues, the strength their legs raising and pushing their hips, the strong grip of their hands... Everything is slick now, between them, wet with precome, and the hot, pressing slide of their dicks together is so exquisite... jolts of pleasure radiate out through Eliot’s body every time the head of Quentin’s cock rubs past his own. He feels like he’s glowing, buzzing to his fingertips and toes.

“Oh god,” Quentin gasps, then lets out a long, sexy groan, his face against Eliot’s neck. “Eliot. I’m getting close. Are... are you?”

“Almost, baby. I’m almost there.” Eliot holds Quentin tight around his back and slides him against his chest, feels the rub of his nipples. “Come on, sweetheart,” he tells him, low against his ear, “I’ve got you.” 

Eliot reclaims Quentin’s mouth in a deep, soft kiss and redoubles the movement of his hips, sliding and pressing against him harder and faster. He takes Quentin’s ass in his hand and helps him move, and Quentin moans deep in his throat, writhes and slides against Eliot, plunges his tongue deep into his mouth and grips hard at his shoulder, and then he’s shaking, and he’s _coming._ Eliot bites his lip gently as a long, low moan escapes from Quentin’s chest and he comes apart against him. It’s fantastic, so magnificently erotic, and Eliot bucks his hips up into the slick mess now between them as Quentin rocks against him, the last of his orgasm rolling through him. 

“Ohhh, _Eliot,”_ he moans, and kisses the corner of Eliot’s mouth, his jaw, his neck. Quentin releases the bedframe and draws his hand down the side of Eliot’s body, then raises his hips and wraps his hand, large and strong, around Eliot’s cock. It’s perfect, holding Quentin tight to his chest as his hand strokes him, firm and fast, lighting him up and pulling him over the edge. When Eliot comes he has both arms around Quentin, his mind full of Quentin, everything around him is Quentin and it’s like they’re in freefall together. Bright waves of pleasure rush through Eliot as he holds tight, and they are still gently rocking together, still held lightly beneath the vibrant cotton of Quentin’s bed, warm and electric and delighted.

“Mmm, good morning,” Quentin says, some time later, when they’re beginning to come to their senses. He’s wrapped tight around Eliot, and he brushes his nose against his face and kisses his cheek. 

“It certainly is.” Eliot is fully in favor of just laying here and cuddling, maybe kissing, maybe going back to sleep. He has his arms full of Quentin, and that’s all he needs. Well, that and a towel from the pile they’re keeping on the desk now, because they’re quite a mess. He definitely drifts off for a little while, because the next time Eliot opens his eyes Quentin is _not_ wrapped around him in a sated post-sex koala-hug. Rather, he’s partly dressed in an undershirt and boxers, (tragic but, actually, _cute,_ ) and is carrying two mugs of coffee into the room. He’s gently rambling about how he wasn’t sure, but he tried to make it the way Eliot likes it, and it’s so sweet and charming that Eliot thinks he might perish. Instead he smiles at him and scoots to sit up, accepting the mug as the blanket falls to his lap. 

“Ahh, thank you. My hero,” he says, and grins at Quentin as he takes a good drink. 

Quentin climbs back into the bed with him with his own coffee cup and kisses him on the shoulder, and they sit back together against the headboard. “So um,” he begins, pressed up nice and warm against Eliot’s shoulder, “before I meet Margo, will you tell me more about her?”

“Oh wow, yeah. Of course. Hmm...” He takes another drink of wonderfully hot coffee. What can one say about Margo? A great many things, but what _should_ one say about Margo?

“Well,” he says, holding out a hand at about nipple-height to illustrate, “she’s tiny. But formidable. Swears a lot, um... mostly out of love. Well. Maybe only in my case.” Just thinking about Margo is making him smile over his coffee. He misses her; it’ll be good to see her, but best to try to allay Quentin’s fears, first. 

“When I first met Bambi,” he tells him, his voice wandering off into a wistful tone, “I’d never seen anyone so glamorous and beautiful. She was like a moviestar with no movie. So untouchable—and that was definitely part of the appeal. But then we kind of... grew up together.”

Quentin rubs a hand warmly up Eliot’s arm and gently brushes his cheek with his thumb as he tucks his errant curls behind his ear. The touch is so familiar and casually affectionate that it makes Eliot’s heart feel like it skips in his chest. “She still looks gorgeous, from that picture you showed me,” Quentin points out. “I’m guessing she’s very protective of you?”

“I mean... in theory? If I was in danger, I have no doubt she’d burn shit down to save me. But she’s also perfectly willing to kick my ass if I’m being an idiot about something that will make me happy.”

He just lets that statement sit for a minute, and wonders what Quentin makes of it. 

“That’s an excellent quality in a friend,” Quentin finally concedes, “reminds me of someone I know.” When Eliot looks over at him, Quentin is sipping his coffee with a wry smile on his face. 

“She can be intense, but I promise, Margo uses her powers for good.”

“Mm,” Quentin agrees. “So, in her work, she convinces diplomats and career politicians to do decent things?”

“Yes.”

“And here you are, dating a doctor hidden away on a hill in Africa. And she’s good with that? With my small-scale life?”

Eliot does not think of Quentin’s life this way at all. The amount of good that he does for people who need help is actually really impressive. But if he’s at all genuinely insecure about Margo not thinking he’s enough of a big deal... 

“Quentin, saving actual people’s lives, treating the seriously ill, and safely delivering babies in a place with real need like this is not _small scale._ Margo knows that. _And_ she knows that I like you, and I’m happy. That’s what she cares about.”

Eliot sets down his coffee and puts his arm around Quentin, who's ducked his head shyly. He rubs over his shoulder with his hand. Quentin softens and leans into him a little bit. 

“Also, she’d probably like to tease me, and check out whether you’re as cute as I told her you were. She knows I have excellent taste.” 

Eliot squeezes Quentin’s shoulders and leans down to look at him where he’s bent over his lap, his hair curtaining his face. He has a small smile, and he might be blushing. Eliot reaches out with a couple of fingers and tucks his hair behind his ear. “Although,” he says, “while you’re objectively extremely cute, you’re not her usual type.”

Quentin looks up and raises his expressive eyebrows questioningly. “Which is?”

“Fucking _hard to find_ , honestly. I want to say... action-movie butch?” Quentin barks out a laugh, and Eliot laughs with him. “You know: brilliant, powerful, dominant but likes a dominant partner, um... battle ready? Oh and an outsider—not military or CIA or anything. Um... _Charlize Theron?_ ”

Quentin’s smile is beautiful when he’s laughing, which is what Eliot was hoping for. “So she’s also queer?”

“Yeah, she’s bisexual.”

“Mhmm,” Quentin hums, thoughtful.

They settle into quiet for a couple of minutes, and Quentin sips his coffee, evidently thinking all of this over. Eliot wonders which part he’s focused on. His next question is a surprise.

“So, have any of Margo’s romantic partners ever objected to her friendship with you?”

“Well,” Eliot says, thinking back, “not that I’ve ever heard about. But... the thing is, though, Margo doesn’t really _have_ romantic partners. She has _sexual_ partners—a couple that are long-term, even, sprinkled around the world. But her lovers are either friends-with-benefits, or, I guess, acquaintances-with-benefits? One memorable summer, there was an enemy-with-benefits.” 

Quentin’s eyes get big, and then he laughs, incredulous. 

“No, really,” Eliot says with, okay sue him, a giggle. “God, she kept going on about how hot it was, but honestly it just sounded exhausting.”

Quentin is laughing now, shaking against Eliot’s side, his ribs vibrating with his choppy breath. Eliot squeezes him tighter, then decides _fuck it,_ they’re finished with their coffee, and just gently manhandles Quentin into laying back against him, slumped further down in the bed, with his head resting on Eliot’s shoulder. Quentin doesn’t object in the slightest, relaxing into Eliot’s arms. 

He guesses he should continue what he was trying to say. “So, none of them exactly have, well, _standing,_ to judge how she lives her life or with whom. Honestly, if anyone Margo was sleeping with had the nerve to _object?"_

“That would be the end of that?” Quentin guesses.

“Yeah, it would.” 

“She sounds almost exactly like Ted.” 

“Oh?” That’s a surprise, and not at all what Eliot expected to hear.

Quentin snuggles back against Eliot’s chest. “Yeah, not the action-hero part,” he sounds like he’s probably grinning. “The independence part. He’s a ‘free spirit,' and he’s perfectly happy about it. Always has been.” 

“Hmmm.” Eliot feels that this conversation might be veering toward a place where it would make sense for him to discuss his romantic hopes with Quentin, and he is not ready for that yet. Not at all. He steers it back to somewhere he can handle.

“I’m sure Margo will like you.” He presses his lips to the top of Quentin’s head. “And I think you’ll like her. What do you think, wanna call her after breakfast?”

Quentin takes his hand and leans his head back on Eliot’s shoulder. “Sure.” 

#

Eliot texts Margo with a heads-up, then warms up last night’s quiche in the oven and makes a fruit and cheese plate while Quentin showers. She acts gleefully evil about getting to size up his “loverboy,” but he knows she’s just playing. She knows Quentin is important to him. Okay, fine, he’s a little bit nervous.

“More coffee, sweetheart?” he asks, when Quentin comes into the kitchen with loose, damp hair in a black button-up with grey jeans, looking very cute and smelling very nice.

“Mmm, yeah. Thanks.” Quentin slides in for a kiss, which Eliot gives him, slow and sweet, and then hands him a cup, a hand still on his hip. It’s hard to stop touching him, so he doesn’t.

“This looks fantastic,” Quentin says, taking a grape. “Thank you. Do you want to shower, though? I’ll wait for you.”

“Sure, but help yourself to the fruit. I’ll hurry.” 

When Eliot emerges, feeling much fresher and more put-together in slim slacks and one of his favorite shirts—a lilac button-down in a perfect weight with a good hand to the cloth—Quentin is sipping coffee in his kitchen nook and reading the Guardian on his notebook computer. He smiles at Eliot when he looks up, his eyes sparkling and dimples curving around his mouth, and Eliot feels his heart leap in his chest. He takes a sudden, deep breath, and tries to cover it by coughing slightly, his hand to his mouth. Eliot may need to sit down.

“Are you okay?” Quentin asks.

“Yeah, just. Um, sip of water, I think.” Eliot busies himself with getting a glass, and takes a deep breath, letting his heart rate calm down. He sure is... feeling a feeling. But he doesn’t have time to try to, exactly, _notice it,_ right this moment. He does his best to pull himself together, and sidles over to Quentin with practiced ease. The moment Eliot slides his hand over Quentin’s back and curls it around his shoulder, he feels himself settle and relax. Quentin turns and tips his chin up for a kiss, and Eliot bends down to give him one, sweet and slow, and everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. 

#

The world outside is still wet, when they open the door to survey the front stoop and the hillside. Eliot steps outside and is a bit stunned by how the morning sun is making the rainwater evaporate off of everything in waves that are heavy enough to see, creating mist that’s floating up into the air and disappearing. There’s white mist rising from the plantain plants, umbrella trees and palms... Eliot can see it burning off from the tops of the big mahogany trees further down the hill, toward the horizon. The scent permeates everything, a rich, strange petrichor unlike any that Eliot’s encountered, almost sweet. He draws in a deep chestful of fragrant, humid morning air.

Quentin brushes up beside Eliot on the front stoop. He has bare feet to Eliot’s oxfords, but neither of them is walking out onto the muddy ground just now. 

“Is it always like this?” Eliot asks. “For the whole rainy season?”

“Gets a bit cooler,” Quentin says softly, “but yes. Pretty much.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Eliot feels Quentin take his hand, lacing their fingers together. “I think so, too.”

He turns to him, watches him looking out over the misty hillside toward the city. Quentin hasn’t been comfortable holding his hand where they could be seen, regardless of Ugandan social customs. Eliot reminds himself not to kiss him, out here on the front steps, no matter how much he wants to. He catches Quentin’s eyes and nods down at their joined hands. “This is okay, right now?”

“Calculated risk,” Quentin says. “Morning, just rained... low chance of neighbors? I could probably come up with a story about why you were visiting at this hour and we were holding hands on the front stoop like, you know, very best bros?”

Eliot grins at him. He can’t help himself. “Prayer Group?” he suggests.

Quentin cracks up. He squeezes Eliot’s hand as he laughs. “Perfect,” he says.

They have a leisurely breakfast inside on the sofa, with the windows wide open to let in the air and light. Eliot learns that Quentin sometimes dries the stoop off and puts down a small rug, so he can still sit out there to eat when it’s not raining, but for now this is better. It’s better because they can twist their feet together—Eliot having given up on his shoes after drying them off—and he can rub his toes up against Quentin’s arches. It’s better because he can put an arm around him and try to make him laugh, and kiss him when he succeeds. He asks Quentin if it’s okay if he bakes bread, and Quentin groans openly over how much he likes that idea. Quentin wants to make a vegetable soup for dinner with some of yesterday’s harvest. Eliot may work a little more, or he may not. Quentin needs to dry off the windowsill in the bedroom and check the windows around the house for leaks. He snuggles into Eliot’s side, a perfect little warm weight. The whole experience is delicious.

With Quentin cuddled up against him and not acting terribly nervous, Eliot opens a Facetime call to Margo on his phone. She appears in a hot pink and orange colorblock dress with fuschia lipstick—she pulls this off fabulously with her warm light-brown skin, Bambi is truly god’s gift to bright colors—framed against her peacock blue chair and looking like a perfect piece of pop art. 

“Well _hello boys,”_ she smiles, wide and warm. Eliot beams back. It’s so good to see her.

“Bambi, meet Quentin,” Eliot begins. “And Quentin, I’m delighted to introduce you to Margo.”

“Hi,” Quentin says with a little smile, as Margo looks at him with amused scrutiny behind a tiny, mischievous grin. 

“Well don’t you two look cozy?” she asks with mirthful exaggeration, then softens into sincerity. “It’s nice to meet you, Quentin. It’s taken Eliot long enough, hiding you away like a kid with some _very cute_ candy.” She shoots Eliot a _look_ , cocking an eyebrow knowingly at him. Margo’s not wrong.

“Oh no,” Quentin rushes adorably, blushingly, to his defense. “It’s probably just that I’m, you know... a little shy. But I am glad to meet you. Eliot told me about you, um, immediately after he asked me out. He talks about you all the time.”

Eliot can tell that Margo is pleased, a tiny lift to her lips. “And I’ve been treated to more than a few stories about your dates. The big market sounded fun—and between us, El’s always happiest when he has someone to cook for.” Quentin’s eyebrows raise interestedly at the nickname, but Margo continues, “And making out in a locked office—so dramatic. I like it.” 

Quentin ducks his head and blushes some more, but he’s grinning. “Yeah,” he says, looking up and pushing his hair back behind his ear, “we um... you know.” 

“Like each other a lot and have to be very careful about where you suck face because it’s Uganda?” Margo asks, amused. “Yeah, I got that. Fucking homophobia. But I’m glad you two have a system. Eliot’s happy, _obviously_ —I haven’t seen him so ass over teakettle in years, it warms my cold, bitchy heart.”

Now it’s Eliot’s turn to be embarrassed, a bit, but Quentin squeezes his hand and shoots him a sweet smile, and he finds he doesn’t mind, so much. He looks into his kind, warm eyes and it’s so reassuring... he’s letting out the breath he was holding and smiling back at him.

Margo clears her throat. “Okay, god, cut it out. It doesn’t warm my heart _that_ much. Why don’t you show me around this idyllic little hideaway of yours. I’d like to see that view. And you boys can go back to tenderly eyefucking each other after we hang up. Copacetic?”

“Oh! Yeah, I can do that.” Quentin suddenly says, apparently happy to have a task. “Have you been to Mulago Hill before?”

“Mmhmm,” Margo says. “It’s been a few years.” She nods and raises an eyebrow knowingly at Eliot, watching how cute Quentin gets when he’s excited.

“Okay so, this house was built in the early 1950s, when there was just the original Mulago Hospital...” he puts his hand around Eliot’s, where he’s holding his phone, “May I?”

“Of course,” Eliot replies, charmed, and relinquishes his phone. “I may have to bow out of the outdoor part of the tour,” he tells Margo, “It’s just rained and I’m having shoe issues.”

“Flew into Kampala in time for the rainy season with expensive oxfords and no rain gear?” she guesses.

“Ah. Just so.”

“Can you help him, Quentin? Take him shopping?”

“Oh um, yeah. I think so. I’m sure we can find at least some nice duck boots and a good umbrella. Maybe not, like, a genuine Burberry rain trench, but I promise we can do better than a poncho.” 

“Good man, that’s just what I wanted to hear.”

Quentin is getting up now, talking to Margo with seemingly no more nerves at all. It’s amusing, and also Eliot didn’t realize that Quentin had his number quite so well. He has a flash of what it would be like to have Quentin and Margo gang up on him. Not unlike being subdued by puppies, probably. There are worse things. 

Quentin takes Margo around the house, talking about late colonial era architecture, showing her where Eliot’s working on his report, the stereo and bookshelf, asking her if she likes classical music, and who her favorite composers are. They see the kitchen, with its baskets of squash and onions by the back door, and then Quentin takes Margo via phone to the bedroom to get his wellingtons before they go outside. 

Eliot steps out onto the front stoop with them, because he wants to be there to show Margo _this._

“Bambi,” he says to her as Quentin holds the phone up for both of them, “here is the location of many a romantic meal, and one of my favorite spots in Kampala.” Quentin smiles widely at that, and sits down on the stoop to show her. Eliot lowers himself down carefully onto his feet beside them, as, unlike Quentin, he is _not_ wearing jeans. They manage to make it work as they grin at Margo through the camera, and then turn the phone around so she can see the view. Most of the mist has burned off, now, leaving the lush green of the hillside. “The sunsets are glorious,” he tells her. 

Quentin steadies him with a hand on his back as they stand. “Here I’ll bid you two adieu,” Eliot says, “until you’re back inside.”

Margo rolls her eyes at him. “All right, Romeo. Quentin, let’s go see that garden.”

Back inside, Eliot takes the breakfast dishes to the sink and washes them, letting the hot water and suds slip through his fingers while he thinks about his two favorite people discussing vegetables and god only knows what else right this minute. He tries not to be nervous. It’s going well, and he trusts Margo, it’s just... it means a lot. That they like each other. Like, _a lot_ a lot.

Finally, Quentin comes in the back door, looking at Margo on the screen. “...but I think the return to subsistence farming, scaled for households and small villages, is a really important element of recovery from the extractive schema of the colonial cash-crop system, and with the strains of ground nuts available now it’s becoming much more widely viable...” he stops and notices Eliot, standing at the sink in his apron with his sleeves rolled up, and stops talking, mouth slightly open. Margo cackles loudly over the phone speaker.

“You’ve run into Eliot, I see.”

Quentin shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “Yeah, um. Sorry. He’s uh, washing dishes.”

“Sexy,” Margo deadpans. “Do me a favor, sweetie, and hold me up so I can see him. Oh and I completely agree, FYI.”

Quentin seems totally unphased by that. “Okay,” he smiles, “yeah, hold on.” Eliot turns around so Quentin won’t have to hold the phone over the sink, and begins to dry his hands as Quentin sidles up to him and raises it so they can both see.

Margo looks beautiful and very amused.

“El, I hear you’re baking bread today?”

Eliot finishes drying his hands and puts an arm around Quentin’s shoulders. “That was the plan, yes.”

“So domestic.” She smirks at him, a look that clearly means _Boring, but please carry on baking for your loverboy._ “You two have fun up there. Quentin, I’m delighted to have finally met you. It was about damn time.” 

“Um, likewise,” Quentin says. “I mean, it was good to meet you. Not that I was, you know, _mad_ or anything, about not meeting you—of course, I mean... I mean I didn’t mean I didn’t _want_ to, just that it was, you know...” He puts his head in his hand and starts to laugh at himself, and Eliot and Margo, charmed, exchange a look and begin to crack up too. “Okay,” Quentin says, tucking his hair behind his ear and smiling, “Thank you, Margo. It’s been a real pleasure.” 

“Goodbye, boys,” she says. “Mwah!” Eliot blows her a kiss, and she’s gone.

“Wow,” Quentin says, slowly handing Eliot back his phone and settling his free arm around his back. “She was. Wow.”

“Yep, that’s my Bambi.” Eliot pockets his phone and pivots to turn this side-hug into a real hug. He holds Quentin’s head to his shoulder and feels him relax. “You were wonderful with her.”

“Thanks for letting me meet her.”

“Oh no sweetheart,” Eliot says. He’s actually kind of choked up, but he keeps his voice soft and casual. “Thank _you_.”

#

Eliot needs to get the bread started fairly soon after that, so while he proofs yeast and measures flour and salt, Quentin goes to see about his windows. Eliot’s just turning the dough out onto the floured countertop when Quentin reappears, smiling and leaning sideways against the doorway arch. His classic black shirt, with two buttons undone, frames the notch of his neck, and his hair is tucked behind his ears, brushing his shoulders. He’s so lovely to look at, but Eliot also gets a warm little rush just because he’s _there_. 

“Hi,” Eliot grins, “I’m just about to start kneading.”

“Mmhmm,” Quentin smiles at him. “My timing is perfect.”

“You want to watch?” This is a nice, but strange, surprise.

Quentin grins and looks down with the sort of soft, amused embarrassment that Eliot is getting used to seeing from him, but then he meets Eliot’s eyes and says, “If it’s okay with you? You have beautiful hands.”

Could Eliot ever stop being enchanted by the way that Quentin gets shy, and is then immediately brave? He knows what he wants, and he admits it even when it makes him blush. Eliot admires this about him. He adores it. 

“All right, if you come over here and kiss me first,” he grins at Quentin. Quentin does, crowding into the space between Eliot and the kitchen counter, sliding his big, warm hands around to the small of Eliot’s back while Eliot holds his own dough-covered hands up in the air and bends down for the kiss. Quentin really kisses him, too— nibbling his lower lip, and sliding his tongue between his teeth, soft and wet and sweet. Then he pulls away.

“Go on, don’t mind me.”

“Oh believe me,” Eliot says, “I certainly don’t mind.” 

Eliot finally shoos him back to the doorway, at least. He works the dough with flexible, deft hands, developing the gluten, feeling it become stronger and smoother under his fingers.

“So I was thinking about reading Whitman to you,” Quentin says.

“You were?”

“Well, you did ask. Which—not gonna lie—is up there toward the top of the list of sexiest things someone could say to me.”

Eliot chuckles quietly and looks over at Quentin, who is watching his forearms and hands with open appreciation. “Do you think it will work more than once? I could add it to my repertoire.”

The corners of Quentin’s mouth quirk up in a slight, wry grin and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well, you could certainly try it.”

They leave the dough to proof and wash their hands before handling the one-hundred and sixty-five year old book, which Quentin brings to the bedroom so they can carefully prop up at the head of the bed and look at it together. This is the first edition, self-published and full of the many, many ellipses that Whitman removed as he published later versions. It’s outrageously rare.

“I feel like I should put on white gloves,” Eliot says. 

“It”ll be okay,” Quentin says. “I absolutely trust you with this.”

That’s surprising. “You do?” Eliot can hear the nervous tinge to his own voice.

Quentin reaches up and brushes a knuckle along the side of Eliot’s face to catch his eyes. He looks at him seriously, and kindly. “Eliot. You’re one of the most thoughtful, careful people I’ve ever met.” He stretches up and gently kisses him, then settles back against the headboard and rests _Leaves of Grass_ up on his knees.

Eliot is... a little bit stunned, but pleased, he supposes, and he leans over and kisses Quentin on the forehead. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“You know the text of _Song of Myself_? Do you have favorite passages?” 

“I could probably find one or two. Studied it in college, but the one I own is a paperback of the deathbed edition, so. A bit different.”

“Mmhmm.” Quentin opens the book, and they both take a good look at Walt Whitman as a young man, in his hat. “The poem didn’t have a title yet, look. Let’s start at the beginning.” He holds the book open carefully between his palms and begins to read.

> _I celebrate myself,_  
>  _And what I assume you shall assume,_  
>  _For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you._
> 
> _I loafe and invite my soul,_  
>  _I lean and loafe at my ease . . . . observing a spear of summer grass._

Quentin’s voice is gentle, almost reverent. Eliot closes his eyes and leans his head back against the bedroom wall, and lets the words wash over him. The poem, in Quentin’s voice, feels timeless. The lines introduce the themes of separate selves—the perfumes—and of a universal self—the atmosphere—tasteless and odorless but ever-present, with which the poet is in love. _“I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,”_ he says, _“I am mad for it to be in contact with me.”_

It’s beautiful, the way Whitman describes the joy of his own physical being, his senses, _(“the smoke of my own breath... the feeling of health...”)_ Eliot listens as things become more transcendental, and again more physical. The haughty promise of the poem, and what it will unlock for the reader— _“Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems.”_

Quentin is a wonderful reader. He reads with care and light inflection, letting the text speak for itself. When he stops, they both pause, letting the quiet settle like a bookend around what he’s read. 

“Would you like to choose a passage?” Quentin asks. 

“Okay, well... if you’re sure.”

Quentin passes the book sideways, from his own hands and raised knees to Eliot’s. Eliot delicately turns the pages, by their edges. There is no numbering, in this edition; the words flow and flow and flow. He lets his vision glide over them for a couple of minutes, remembering and discovering sections, then turns back to a place near where Quentin left off. Keeping with the gentleness of Quentin’s tone, Eliot reads:

> _There was never any more inception than there is now,_  
>  _Nor any more youth or age than there is now,_  
>  _And will never be any more perfection than there is now,_  
>  _Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now._

Quentin cuddles into Eliot’s side and puts his head on his shoulder. “Well done, Walt,” he murmurs. Eliot has to agree. 

“I have to admit,” Quentin says quietly, reaching over into Eliot’s lap to turn pages, “I don’t always read through all of the lists and litanies. Sometimes, but not always.”

“Mmm. Understandable.”

“Oh, here we go, though...” Quentin continues, finding the spot he wants. “Some of them... Listen to this:”

> _If I worship any particular thing it shall be some of the spread of my body;_  
>  _Translucent mould of me it shall be you,_  
>  _Shaded ledges and rests, firm masculine coulter, it shall be you,_  
>  _Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you,_  
>  _You my rich blood, your milky stream pale strippings of my life;_  
>  _Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you,_  
>  _My brain it shall be your occult convolutions,_  
>  _Root of washed sweet-flag, timorous pond-snipe, nest of guarded duplicate eggs, it shall be you,_  
>  _Mixed tussled hay of head and beard and brawn it shall be you,_  
>  _Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you;_  
>  _Sun so generous it shall be you,_  
>  _Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you,_  
>  _You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you,_  
>  _Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you,_  
>  _Broad muscular fields, branches of liveoak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you,_  
>  _Hands I have taken, face I have kissed, mortal I have ever touched, it shall be you._

Eliot reaches behind Quentin and settles his free arm around his back, pulls him in a little closer. “So racy,” he says, turning to him with a soft grin, “for 1855.”

“Yeah. It was scandalous,” Quentin grins a little wider. “Emerson liked it, though.”

“Well I should think so...” Eliot lets his fingers linger against Quentin’s as he turns the pages. “Were any of the transcendentalists not queer? I doubt it.”

“We can’t really _know,_ but um, not that I’m aware of?” Quentin feels so nice, solid and warm, nestled against Eliot’s side. Eliot takes a deep, settling breath and lets it out with a hum as he finds the paragraph he’s looking for.

“All right, here we are...” Eliot reads:

> _I am enamoured of growing outdoors,_  
>  _Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,_  
>  _Of the builders and steerers of ships, of the wielders of axes and mauls, of the drivers of horses,_  
>  _I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out._

“Whitman’s type,” Quentin says, startling a soft laugh from Eliot. “Oh, and right after... I love this part.” Quentin continues the passage:

> _What is commonest and cheapest and nearest and easiest is Me,_  
>  _Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns,_  
>  _Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me,_  
>  _Not asking the sky to come down to my goodwill,_  
>  _Scattering it freely forever._

His fingers rifle gently across the edges of the pages, skipping five or six, and then Quentin’s soft voice picks up the poem again:

> _This is the press of a bashful hand . . . . this is the float and odor of hair,_  
>  _This is the touch of my lips to yours . . . . this is the murmur of yearning,_  
>  _This is the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,_  
>  _This is the thoughtful merge of myself and the outlet again._
> 
> _Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?_  
>  _Well I have . . . . for the April rain has, and the mica on the side of a rock has._
> 
> _Do you take it I would astonish?_  
>  _Does the daylight astonish? or the early redstart twittering through the woods?_  
>  _Do I astonish more than they?_
> 
> _This hour I tell things in confidence,_  
>  _I might not tell everybody but I will tell you._

They rest together, for a moment, warm and folded in quiet. Eliot recites from memory:

> _“I am the poet of the body,_  
>  _And I am the poet of the soul.”_

Quentin slowly closes the book, held on Eliot’s knees, and hums contentedly. Eliot turns, and Quentin meets his eyes. His lovely brown eyes are deep and knowing and very soft, and when he tips his chin slightly upward, Eliot leans down to kiss him. 

The air has changed, while they’ve been reading, and Eliot barely noticed it. The light from the bedroom window—the curtains open for the first time since Eliot’s been coming here—is almost orange: a strange, glowing, directionless sunlight that’s diffusing through thick air and glancing off the bottoms of gathering clouds. Both of them look up, in the sudden eerie silence, from where they’ve been gently kissing and cuddling at the head of the bed. Eliot smells it coming for half a second before a deafening CRACK of thunder makes him jump and tighten his arm protectively around Quentin. The sky outside opens and suddenly the sound of rain is incredibly loud as the room fills up with cooled, misty air. 

“I have to get the windows!” Quentin says, scrambling off the bed. “Eliot, will you take care of the book, please?” He’s grabbed a towel from the bedside desk stack and is already across the room and lowering the sashes while mopping up the sills.

“Oh! Um, yeah, of course.” Eliot gently picks up _Leaves of Grass_ and half-runs to the livingroom bookshelf to gingerly slide it back into its place, only realizing after, with one finger still resting on the spine, that he’s being a _little bit_ silly— in his mind he’s rescuing Quentin’s irreplaceable treasure from impending destruction, but really, the thunderstorm is _outside._

It barely feels that way, though, as rain is coming in the front windows in here, too. Far away from the bookshelf, sure, but loud and wet, and the house feels surrounded by water, like a small boat at sea. Quentin rushes in with more towels, and tosses one to Eliot, and they quickly dry the front window sills as well as can be managed with rain continuing to pour, get them closed and latched, and Eliot stoops to dry the wall and the floor. 

It’s suddenly much quieter. Quentin looks at him, still a little frantic, “The kitchen ones?”

“I think they’re closed,” Eliot says. “Let’s check.” 

They do. They are. The house is safe, a sheltered haven or harbor; the rain beats on the windows outside the kitchen, pouring down the glass, as they stand and catch their breath. Quentin drapes a hand on Eliot’s shoulder, relieved, and Eliot reaches out eagerly with both arms and pulls him into a tight hug. 

Quentin laughs and relaxes against him, then wraps his arms around Eliot and squeezes him back. “This isn’t going to ruin the bread, is it?” he asks. 

Quentin's priorities are delightful. “No,” Eliot laughs, and pulls his head in against his shoulder and kisses the top of it, “I don’t think so.” 

“So you’re probably going to think I’m crazy,” Quentin begins, his voice quick and excited, leaning back to look at Eliot. “But I want to go out in the rain.”

Eliot glances at the sheets of water pouring down the windows over the sink. “You do?”

“Yes. And get completely drenched. I don’t know how long the storm is going to last, but it’s the first one we’ve had in months. I really want to be in it.”

He’s excited, Eliot sees, looking into Quentin’s eyes, and he’s serious. Definitely not crazy. Beautiful, actually. There’s a light in his eyes, a radiance. This is something Quentin loves, and Eliot’s discovering it.

“I’m coming too.” 

They put a towel down by the back door, and Eliot takes off his socks and rolls up his pantlegs against potential mud, and as soon as he’s done Quentin takes his hand and pulls him out the door. They run around the back of the house, Quentin pulling Eliot along, and around the garden, as the rain falls in fat, warm drops so big that Eliot can feel them through his shirt. 

It’s both dark and light at the same time. Everything is dripping or pouring, streams of water running from the leaves of plants, and rivulets carving their way through the mud and running down the hill. The rain soaks Eliot’s hair, his clothes, and runs over his face as Quentin stops in front of the garden, laughing. 

“Oh my god!” Quentin yells over the cacophony. “This is incredible!” 

Thunder rumbles again, loud and close, and a gust of wind blows water against them in a sheet that soaks through the last stitch of Eliot’s clothing. He’s wet, now, everywhere. It’s kind of liberating, actually—exhilarating. The wet ground beneath his feet feels slightly warmer than the rain, and Eliot digs in his toes. He tips his head up to better feel the drops on his face, and tastes the rain with an open mouth. Then he turns to look at Quentin. 

Quentin has his arms out to his sides, the one holding Eliot’s hand and the other straight out, letting the rain fall on his fingers and open palm. His face is tilted toward the sky, and he’s breathing deep into his chest with the most beautiful smile on his face—the kind that keeps tipping back and forth into laughter, dimples in their full glory. Quentin’s eyes are closed and he just holds himself there, drenched, like an offering before the rain. He looks so, so beautifully happy, even grateful, unselfconscious and real, and Eliot...

Eliot _loves him._

He _loves_ him.

Eliot Waugh stands soaking wet and barefoot in the mud in this torrential rainstorm on this forested hillside in Kampala and he _loves_ Quentin Coldwater. His knees almost buckle with the weight of it—it’s more real than the dark clouds that are nearly on top of them, and more urgent than the heavy, pouring rain. It’s unequivocal. Eliot is in love, and he’s overwhelmed, and he’s overjoyed.

“Can I hold you?!” he shouts, over the din.

“Yes!” Quentin yells back, “Yes! Please!”

Eliot steps behind Quentin, planting his feet wide to steady himself, wraps him in his arms, and holds him tight. Quentin pushes his dripping hair back from his face and leans into Eliot. 

The feeling of Quentin, solid against him, is grounding. It’s incredible. Eliot smooths his fingertips over Quentin’s ribs, through his wet shirt, and feels the rise and fall of his chest. He’s real, and he’s wonderful, and Eliot loves him. 

Quentin reaches his arms out and seems to drink in the rain, head tipped back on Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot holds him against his chest, holds him up and feels the warmth where they’re pressed together through their wet clothes, his heart pounding and the ceaseless rain pouring heavy over them both. Finally, _finally,_ Quentin lifts his head and turns around in the circle of Eliot’s arms. 

“Eliot,” Quentin gasps, clasping his hands at the back of Eliot’s neck. 

“Quentin,” Eliot says, “I... you’re...” He’s not sure that Quentin can even hear him. 

“Thank you for doing this with me!” Quentin laughs. 

“I wouldn’t miss it!” Eliot tells him, loud through the rain and smiling like a loon.

Quentin looks up at Eliot, his cheeks flushed and rain hitting his face. His eyes are warm and bright, eyelashes heavy with water. He smiles at him, beautiful and frank, and presses his fingers up the back of Eliot’s neck into his wet curls, then pulls Eliot down as he lifts up on his toes to kiss him. 

Thank god Quentin likes to be kissed so much, because Eliot can’t help it, he’s mad for this. He tightens his arms around Quentin’s back and holds him up as he kisses him, licks into his mouth, desperate and tender. He feels Quentin moan, deep in his chest, the vibration traveling through his wet shirt to Eliot’s arms and hands wrapped around him. Quentin kisses him back energetically, passionately, breaking away for a moment to laugh—he’s so happy, so lovely. Eliot loves him. 

It isn’t possible to wind themselves around each other as much as they’d clearly like, there in the drenching rain, but they make a great effort, kissing wildly. Eliot’s hands move over Quentin’s ribs, his back... he wants to pick him up but they’d likely fall down if he did. Quentin does hike one leg up around Eliot’s thigh, however, and one of his hands moves from his hair to touch and rub all over his chest. This is amazing, it’s absolutely gorgeous, Eliot’s senses filled up completely with Quentin in the rain, his heart elated and pouring over.

Quentin breaks the kiss, breathing hard and grinning. “Eliot this is amazing!” he calls. It’s still so loud, all around them. “But it’s not exactly discreet!” Eliot nods his understanding—Quentin is right, obviously. Rainwater is running down Eliot’s face, but he doesn’t want to take his hands off Quentin. 

“Do you want to go inside?!” Eliot asks.

“Do you want to go to bed?!”

He absolutely _does._ “Yes!” Eliot yells. He’s holding Quentin so tight that a pool is forming where their chests are pressed together, and he has to remember to carefully let go, settling him fully back on the muddy ground. 

Quentin takes Eliot’s hand and steps back. He looks him up and down, soaking wet in his clothes. “Oh my god,” he says, and laughs and rolls his eyes, “come on!”

He pulls Eliot, stumbling slightly in the mud, back around the garden and up to the back door, where they both dip their feet in the overflowing metal washtub before scrambling back inside and out of the rain. 

#

As Quentin pushes the door shut with a solid _click_ Eliot is struck by the relative quiet, the warmth of the kitchen—they’re both dripping from head to toe, but out of the rain, soaking the towel they’re standing on. It comes back to him powerfully, that feeling of harbor that he felt when they got the windows closed, the safety of being inside Quentin’s house while the rain pours down outside. He laughs with relief and Quentin, still holding his hand, catches his eyes.

“Can I, um...” he steps into Eliot’s space and wraps an arm around his lower back, pulling him flush against him. His body feels solid and hot, pressed against Eliot through their soaked clothes. Eliot feels Quentin take a deep breath, then he looks up with his warm, clear, soft brown eyes. “Yeah?” he asks.

Eliot swallows and looks into those eyes. He feels like he could get lost there for days. “God, yes.”

Eliot takes Quentin back into his arms and kisses him, threading his hand into his hair at the back of his head and gently tightening his fingers, holding him firmly around his lower back. Quentin whines against his lips and melts into his embrace. His tongue presses and tangles with Eliot’s, his lips wet and slick. Quentin kisses Eliot like he _wants_ him, _urgently._

Eliot wants Quentin too, god, he does... but even more than that Eliot wants to give him... just... everything. Everything he wants, everything he can. He adores him, he loves him, and whether or not Quentin feels anything similar, the clarity of the thing is stunning, a watershed. It’s glorious. 

Quentin breaks the kiss and sucks on Eliot’s neck, beneath his jaw, his mouth traveling hot and slick down to his open collar. He pulls back and looks up at him, his eyes dark with desire. “Eliot,” he gasps, then pauses. He smooths his hands up the front of Eliot’s chest, warm and a little shaky through his soaked shirt, over his pecs and up to his collar. “Can I?” 

“Yes,” Eliot tells him. “Quentin. Anything.”

It may be a lot, to say that. It may be foolish and too much, but Eliot trusts Quentin with his body, and as Quentin looks at him tenderly and kisses him again before nosing down his neck and beginning to unbutton his shirt, Eliot decides it wasn’t a mistake. He runs his hands over Quentin’s back and takes a deep breath, focusing on the feeling of Quentin’s soft lips at the base of his neck and his strong, careful fingers brushing against his skin as it’s exposed, one button at a time. 

Suddenly Quentin’s mouth leaves the join of Eliot’s collarbones and glances across his chest, and then Quentin is sucking on his nipple, through his wet shirt. Fucking _god,_ it’s so erotic; Eliot groans at the feeling as Quentin rolls his suddenly stiff nipple between his lips through the wet, smooth fabric and scratches over it with his teeth. He feels it like a jolt of electricity, going straight to his cock. He clutches at Quentin’s back and narrowly avoids letting his knees buckle. 

“Okay?” Quentin asks, his lips still _right there_.

“Fuck. _Yes.”_

 _"Mmmm”_ Quentin hums, and moves to his other nipple. Eliot feels like he might melt, or pass out, right here in the kitchen. He was getting hard before, out in the downpour, but _now_ he’s gotten so hard, so fast, that it’s making his head spin. Eliot breathes through the intense, fantastic sensation of Quentin’s mouth working his nipple through his shirt and spreads his legs a little, planting his feet as much as he can on the wet towel they’re standing on. He moves his hands to Quentin’s shoulders and grips, holding on tight. 

Quentin seems to have decided that he’s done with Eliot wearing clothes, because his shirt is being rolled quickly off his shoulders and pressed down his arms, Quentin drinking in the sight of Eliot’s shoulders and chest. 

“Let me get yours, too,” Eliot says. This feels so intimate, and so urgent.

“Yeah.” Quentin sounds a little frantic. “Please.”

Eliot has to slide his fingers over Quentin’s body through his soaked clothes—he just has to. The thin black cotton shirt is plastered to him, wrapping around the muscles of his arms and his slender torso and clinging to his pecs and his ribs. _So_ fantastic. He slides his hand around Quentin’s lower back and moves the other, large and flat, over the contours of his body. He’s warm, and firm, and just... so sexy. 

Quentin’s nipples are hard, sharp little points. Eliot thumbs over them. He raises an eyebrow questioningly at Quentin, who nods, and that’s all the permission Eliot needs: he takes a stiff, pebbled nipple into his mouth, laves over it with his tongue and pinches it lightly between his lips. The way Quentin gasps and squirms, pressing up against him, is thrilling. He suddenly wants him out of the shirt. He wants his skin. 

Eliot peels Quentin’s shirt away before moving to his other nipple. He’s gorgeous. The urge to get Quentin out of his pants and just swallow him down right here in the kitchen is... well. It’s strong. Eliot’s already halfway to his knees. But Quentin had asked him if he wanted to go to bed, and... and _oh,_ he _wants_ to give him what he wants.

“Sweetheart,” Eliot asks, his lips hot against Quentin’s chest and hands holding firm around his ribs, “tell me what you want.”

“Come up here and kiss me,” Quentin gasps, smiling at him. “And take off my pants.” 

Eliot does. He kisses Quentin as well as he can with his hands carefully undoing the button and zipper of his wet jeans, his erection clearly straining against them. Quentin is working on the clasp of Eliot’s trousers, and their chests rub together as Eliot stoops to kiss him and palms his stiff cock through the wet cloth of his boxers. 

“Nnnng,” Quentin moans with his teeth around Eliot’s bottom lip, and Eliot decides to stop messing around and hooks his fingers into the waistbands of Quentin’s pants and underwear and rolls them down over his hips. He breaks the kiss to press them over his thighs, now eye-level with Quentin’s lovely, straining cock, which bounces against his lower belly as he lifts his feet free of his jeans while Eliot holds them down. Eliot takes hold of Quentin’s hips and licks a heavy, pressing stripe up his cock, from base to tip, and swirls his lips around the head. He knows by now that Quentin won’t mind.

“Oh my god,” Quentin moans. “Eliot... _fuck.”_ As Eliot stands, Quentin reaches for the back of his head and pulls him into a hard, deep kiss, then lets go only to grab his pants and push them briskly down his legs. Eliot steps out and Quentin pauses, still holding them. 

“Leave them,” Eliot says. They’re suddenly both naked in the kitchen, the rain continuing to pound at the window, and Eliot needs to be touching as much of Quentin as he possibly can. He wraps his arms around his chest and lifts him up against him, holding the back of his head in one hand and kissing him deeply, feeling Quentin press and fit himself to the contours of Eliot’s body, melting against him and holding on.

He’s kissing Quentin with purpose, now; he’s bending his knees to move a bit lower as Quentin hikes a leg up around him, he’s tightening his fingers in Quentin’s hair and pulling, savoring his drawn-out moan. “Bed?” he asks, and Quentin nods frantically, still kissing, warm and wet against him from head to foot.

Eliot walks him backwards through the house, stooped down to kiss him but leading nonetheless, his arms wrapped around Quentin’s back. They only stumble a little, navigating the corner toward the bedroom while Quentin licks against Eliot’s tongue and presses his nails into his shoulder, enthusiastic and passionate.

The bed, the bed... Eliot circles them around the room so he can draw the curtains closed and finally steers them to the bed. He stoops to pull back the bedclothes and lowers Quentin down onto the mattress, presses him back into the pillows and crawls over him, blanketing him with his body, and then pulls the sheet and bedspread quickly and fully over them both. He holds them to the headboard, creating a warm, dim tent that covers their first few moments in the bed together as Quentin gasps and presses up into him. 

God he’s... he’s everything Eliot wants. The way he fits under him, small but solid, the rise of his chest and pounding of his heart. Eliot kisses him urgently as they tangle together, skin hot and still wet from the rain, Quentin’s feet moving to dig into the outsides of Eliot’s legs. Eliot can feel Quentin’s cock, heavy and hard, sliding into place beside his own, and suddenly it’s _so_ intense, this is _happening_ , their hips just _moving_. Quentin is lifting him up off the bed, somehow, with the strong press of his hips, and it’s so _good,_ it’s so good, Eliot can barely think. 

Quentin kisses Eliot so passionately, so deeply, it pulls him in like a powerful current. They rock and press together, Quentin’s hands moving strong and certain over Eliot’s back and his hips, his tongue curling deep in his mouth. Everything is hot and slick between them, once again. The thick, solid, velvety press of Quentin’s cock and the softness of his stomach sliding against the underside of Eliot’s cock, _fuck,_ it’s shooting sparks all over his body, urging him toward the edge of orgasm incredibly fast. 

Eliot laughs and shifts, makes himself slow down. He can barely believe this, that this is happening, that he’s in bed with heavy rain pouring down the windows, with this incredible man that he’s just realized he _loves._ Eliot wants to feel Quentin all over, to kiss him everywhere, to get his mouth on every part of him. 

He’s not usually like this during sex, overcome with desire so strong that it edges into need. He’s always intentional, careful... and he tries to be careful now as he kisses the corner of Quentin’s mouth, his jaw, and presses up on his hands to move down his neck. 

“Quentin,” he murmurs, sliding downward and mouthing against his chest, and then his stomach, making it obvious where he’s heading. “Sweetheart. Let me.”

“Okay,” Quentin gasps, his voice a little choked, “okay.”

Eliot takes Quentin into his mouth like he’s surfacing from deep water and reaching for land. He sucks gratefully at the head of his cock and rolls it, heavy and velvety, on his tongue. He lowers himself down with great relief as he draws him in, his lips warm and slick as he slides them down Quentin’s shaft. Quentin feels so good, is so sexy, tastes _so_ good and it’s... _jesus..._ massively erotic, how he swells and hardens even more and leaks onto Eliot’s tongue. Eliot lets his eyes slide closed and gives a bit more free rein to his desire, taking Quentin’s cock deep into his mouth, pouring his passion into the suction and the movement of his lips and tongue. Quentin moans, loud like he’s falling apart, and writhes with his whole body against the bed.

“Eliot,” Quentin eventually gasps, “Stop, darling, please. I just.” Eliot pulls off of Quentin’s absolutely fantastic dick and lets it rest right against his lips as he looks up at him. Quentin is flushed clear down his chest and is breathing hard and grinning, up on his elbows with his pecs and arms and shoulders tight. God, he’s just a dream, Eliot can hardly believe it.

“Can we...” Quentin continues. “I really want you inside of me. Is, um... is that okay?”

“It’s more than okay, baby,” Eliot assures him, and smiles and swirls his tongue over Quentin’s glans again, gives it a parting kiss. Quentin gasps adorably and looks at him with a combination of obvious desire and amused affection as Eliot crawls back up the bed to hover over him and kisses him, deep and sweet, before reaching for the lube.

Eliot gets a palmfull of slick and indulgently wraps his hand around both of their cocks, holding himself up on one hand and stroking them together, slowly, for a minute while Quentin stares wide-eyed, and then gasps under his breath, “Jesus _fuck, oh my god,”_ when Eliot slides his warm fist snugly down over the head of his dick. He lets him go and lowers himself down to Quentin’s side, where he can kiss him, his neck and his jaw and his mouth, while he fingers him open.

It doesn’t take long. Quentin presses his hand up into Eliot’s hair and pulls him in to kiss. He relaxes beautifully around Eliot’s fingers, and moans softly in his ear when he glides his fingertips lightly over his prostate, sending a wave of arousal through Eliot at his hot breath and the sound of his voice. Quentin is so fabulously sensitive. Eliot licks into his mouth, tastes his lips. He’s fully relaxed now, definitely, but Eliot can’t resist just... pressing his palm, the heel of his hand, back along Quentin’s perineum, thick and full at the base of his erection, and curling his fingers to stroke him a bit harder, a bit more. 

Quentin moans beautifully and writhes on Eliot’s hand, like his body isn’t sure if it wants to arch up or curl over itself, and Eliot rocks him on his palm, creating a rhythm, and fucks him on his long fingers. He leans up to look at him... head tipped back, hips rolling on the bed with the motion of Eliot’s arm, hard and straining and... dripping. Onto his stomach.

God he’s... he’s incredible. Eliot could just die from the sexiness; if he could come just from _looking_ at something, it would be _this._ And yet, holding Quentin on _literally_ the palm of his hand, he feels protective. Feels, just... _so_ tender.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, slowly stilling the motion of his hand. Quentin moans, long and low, and clenches briefly around his fingers before relaxing again. 

“Eliot,” Quentin rasps. “My _god,_ your _hands.”_

“Do you still want, um?” Eliot is trying to ask if Quentin wants him to fuck him, but the words are sticking in his throat. 

_“Yes._ God, yes. But um, so you know...” Quentin laughs softly and opens his eyes to look at Eliot, “I could definitely come, from just. Just that.” 

_Jesus,_ the _thought_ of it, of Quentin coming, untouched, on Eliot’s hand... “Baby,” Eliot says, pressing in to kiss him, “ _fuck,_ that would be amazing. Can I? Some time?” He curls his fingers just to press, one more time, against Quentin’s prostate, like a little parting promise, and kisses him again as he finally, gently pulls them away.

“Oh no _yeah_ ” Quentin softly gasps. “That’d be. That’d be good.” He laughs quietly and rolls to wrap himself around Eliot, his arms and legs encircling him and his hand in his hair at the back of his head. Eliot sinks into kissing him, being kissed by him, so deep and sweet. He adores him... he loves him. Quentin is ready and he wants him and Eliot is _right there._

“Eliot,” Quentin says, drawing momentarily away from his lips and pressing him onto his back with the strength and weight of his arms, “let me.”

 _"I'm all yours.”_ Eliot grins as he lifts his head to claim his lips again but quickly loses the thread as Quentin swings over him and, with impressive skill, lines himself up and begins to press himself back onto Eliot’s cock. 

The feeling is so intense, so stunning that it’s hard to remember to breathe, as Quentin rocks down onto Eliot and takes him in. Eliot feels the solid shapes of Quentin’s back with his splayed hands, Quentin’s lips and tongue moving urgently against his as they kiss, and when Quentin presses his body fully down onto Eliot’s and clenches around him he gasps, seeing stars, his focus split between his fingers and his lips and his cock and his mind completely overcome with _Quentin._

Quentin begins to move, riding Eliot eagerly, beautifully, still kissing him as he slides and pushes down onto his cock, over and over, all the way to the base. It feels absolutely exquisite, so hot and tight and thrilling, surges of pleasure just rolling and sparking through his whole body, but also it’s just... it’s so right. To do this, to _be_ this, _with_ him. _“Oh god—"_ Eliot kisses Quentin so deeply it’s like he might never come up— _“Quentin.”_ It feels as though something has cracked apart, in Eliot, some armor that he didn’t even realize... some shell... It’s like it was their first time, but it’s not, because now he _knows._

This is good _it’s so good_ it’s so perfect but it’s _more,_ it’s more than just gorgeous, abandoned sex with no pretense between them; Eliot feels himself open in a way he never has, and it’s like he can still feel the rain, pouring down on them, cooling their hot skin and coating their hair and wetting their mouths and their eyes and their hands.

He kisses Quentin and he holds him and he moves inside him. He takes over when Quentin stills, gasping and shaking, and rolls them over and holds him down to the bed as he moans _“Ohh, Eliot,”_ surging up to meet him. He wraps him in his hands and kisses his skin and his mouth and looks into his eyes as he presses into him, as steady and perfect as he can, avid and passionate and giving him everything he can because he _loves him,_ he’s _in love with him..._ and when Quentin comes, shouting Eliot’s name and gripping him hard, seeming to come apart and remake himself around Eliot’s body as he clenches tight around him and pulls him right over the edge with him, the thunder seems to rock through Eliot and he’s broken wide open, drenched and washed clean and in love. He knows it—he can hardly believe it, that this could happen to him, but it has—he holds Quentin tight to him and feels the beating of his heart against his chest, his breath on his neck—it _absolutely has._

#

Hours later, Eliot and Quentin share soup and warm homemade bread, curled up together on the living room sofa, with Quentin’s throw blanket over their legs. Eliot feels like they cooked together in a soft daze, as rain continued to fall, more gentle but steady, outside the window. Really, they’d joked and talked and taken many excuses to touch each other, stealing kisses and standing, Eliot wrapped around Quentin’s back, over the simmering pot on the stove. He’d rubbed his nose into Quentin’s hair at his temple and kissed him there while they tasted the broth. He’d shaped the dough into a rosette of little tear-away rolls that would bake quickly, while Quentin watched his arms and hands with a wry, knowing smile. But through all of it Eliot felt like he was half in a dream. 

The soup is hearty and warming, almost rich, with browned onions and pepper and full of vegetables. Eliot feels so well taken care of, and Quentin tells him he loves the fresh bread. Just the sound of the word, coming from Quentin’s lips, makes Eliot’s heart skip and his breath catch in his throat. They weren’t really very cold, even before the blanket and the soup, but the chill of the rain looms in potential, in a later part of the night that they haven’t yet reached, just outdoors. Their meal feels like a spell or charm, to keep away the cold. 

Eliot rubs his thumb in a slow circle over the skin where Quentin’s thumb and forefinger meet, where they’re holding hands beneath the blanket. “I really don’t want to have to go back to the guest house tonight,” he admits. “Do you think the rain could give us enough cover for me to leave safely in the morning?” 

“Oh wow, let me think about that.” Quentin turns his hand over and squeezes Eliot’s fingers. “I’d really like for you to stay, too.” They talk it through while they cuddle and eat: It’s been pouring; Quentin can give him an umbrella but has nothing else that would fit him at all; having an Uber pick him up in the early hours of the morning would be far too risky. Beyond the very serious need to protect their secret, Quentin is concerned for the preservation of Eliot’s shoes—which is very charming and kind of him, Eliot feels.

“Do you have anything in the morning that you can’t cancel?” Quentin asks after he sets down his bowl. His eyes are dark in the lamplight, but still so soft, and he settles his body, warm and steady, against Eliot’s side.

Eliot doesn’t. His morning meeting can be rescheduled, he’s sure. Quentin’s patients, on the other hand, can’t necessarily wait. They eventually concoct a plan where Quentin will go to work, then take an Uber home around lunchtime to pick Eliot up, pretending that Eliot mistakenly showed up to visit when he wasn’t there. They’ll head to a shopping center in the city to buy rain gear, before getting a new car to return Eliot to his cottage and Quentin to his office. Eliot plans to use the hotel’s laundry service, and mention that he was traveling over the weekend. The need to return to carefully maintaining a ruse and spending their nights apart is looming, but Eliot is _soooo_ grateful that it doesn’t have to start just yet.

Quentin lifts Eliot’s hand in both of his, rubbing gently over his knuckles with his thumbs. He raises his head and looks into Eliot’s eyes, frank and vulnerable. “Is it too much,” he asks, “to say that I hope next weekend can be like this too?”

Eliot smiles with genuine relief, his heart pounding, letting his forehead tilt forward to touch Quentin’s. He can’t tell him how he feels—it’s objectively far too soon. But Quentin wants him to come back here, and that’s wonderful, that’s perfect. “Not too much, sweetheart,” he tells him, right before he kisses him, “not even close.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, lovely readers, for being here for this journey. 
> 
> As I write, I've been listening to a lot of work by a composer named Ludovico Einaudi. Can one link to spotify here? Let me try. 
> 
> [Here is the album, _Islands,_ that's been keeping me company.](https://open.spotify.com/album/7k1Ki5pYinGM3lME2Tv3AM)
> 
> Here are some youtube links to a few special pieces, as well: ["Le Onde"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x2XGx18rO20) I imagine as Quentin's theme, ["Nuvole Bianche"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTeRQ16O798&list=OLAK5uy_mpTNhJD9crvqW9Obgvi5CVC_hXpQ9D-Nw) reminds me of Eliot's journey in Kampala, and "Nightbook" is what I listened to while writing about the thunderstorm.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A zillion thanks to the incomparable [kickassfu,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickassfu) who is making art for this story. The first photo edit follows, and is for Quentin.

* * *

It’s been a beautiful few days, this last week of September, now that the rains have begun. It’s cool in the mornings, humid when the showers let up—every day feels like it’s been washed clean. Really, it’s been an incredible couple of weeks, for Quentin, but he’s felt particularly happy and calm and like everything is good in his world since Eliot’s visit last weekend. 

Quentin just... he just feels so _alive._ He hasn’t been this happy with someone in years and years. Eliot is so lovely, and so sweet, and it’s still hard to believe that this is happening, and that he met him _here._ Quentin’s missing sharing a bed with him at night, and particularly waking up with him, but that part feels like... like the _very delicious_ icing on the cake. They’ll get to do it again next weekend, and in the meantime, things are so, so good.

They’re so good, in fact, that Quentin has to put extra thought into keeping the romance a secret. He strictly reminds himself that he can’t let on to his colleagues why he’s in such a good mood, and can’t cuddle and flirt with Eliot when they meet for work or for lunch. 

He tells Estella about how he got his garden taken care of just in time for the rains to start. He amends his schedule a bit to account for the wet weather, and makes time to haul his extra vegetables down to his neighbors. He digs out all his rain clothes, wonders whether he can get away with wearing a hat this season, and daydreams about buying Eliot a nice, soft cashmere sweater as a gift. It doesn’t _get_ cold in Kampala, so this is an impractical fantasy, for sure, but Quentin’s having a lot of those lately, actually. (There’s a fantasy about walking in Central Park in the snow with Eliot... a fantasy about coming home from a play at night with Eliot... a fantasy about Eliot with a little silver at his temples, maybe glasses...)

Quentin has had three lovely, intimate evenings in a row at Eliot’s guest house this week. He’s started carrying a full-sized briefcase over there, like they’re just doing _so_ much writing together. In reality they’re cuddling and talking, doing a bit of cooking or sharing takeout, and spending many wonderful hours in bed. 

He and Ted did have a little discussion about things on Monday evening, if one could call it that. Little ambush may be more accurate. Ted had been his regular, jovial self when they all skyped for a few minutes on Sunday night—kind and reasonably polite and not too familiar with Eliot, lightly teasing Quentin and wishing them well. But the next night, after Quentin got back from the guest house alone and got Ted up on the screen, he got an earful. 

Ted is too damned perceptive, having known Quentin all his life and lived with him for most of it, trained reporter and asker-of-questions that he is. But in this case Quentin is fairly grateful for it, he thinks.

“Pops, you’re in denial,” he’d said, matter-of-fact, over Quentin’s mild protestations that it was far too soon to be thinking such things. “That man is in love with you.” 

“I just,” Quentin had tried to explain, “I know he’s _fond of me._ But we’re... it’s... okay look, it’s only been a couple of weeks.”

“Have you _noticed_ how he looks at you?” Ted had asked, pointedly. “Take a minute, think about it. I’ll wait.” He had been serious, in that _I’m being stubborn because I love you_ way that he gets, so Quentin had taken that minute (or maybe two.) 

Maybe Ted was right. Quentin’s insecurities were telling him that it couldn’t possibly be: it hadn’t been very long... Eliot was out of his league... (and okay, _yes,_ that was a foolish concept, people didn’t come in ‘leagues’ and the heart wants what it wants, etcetera. He knew.) But feeling a bit unworthy had always been a hard thing for Quentin to shake. And now he had, against all reason and odds, a lover who was not only incredibly handsome but also the sweetest, most thoughtful, kind, funny, artistic, affectionate... and okay, the way he _looked at him..._

Oh. _Oh my god?_

“He looks at me like he loves me.” 

Ted had just raised his eyebrows at Quentin and waited, as Quentin cycled through panic and elation at the very thought that Eliot, _Eliot,_ might be in love with him, or nearly so? He must have settled somewhere for a moment, a kind of stunned happiness, probably, before Ted chuckled at him and said, “Dear lord. If you could see all the things your face has just done.”

“Look, I. Okay. But.” Quentin had sputtered. 

“And how do you feel about _him?”_ Ted had asked, like he was leading a small child. “Are you in love with Eliot?”

“I...” Quentin hadn’t quite let himself go there, yet. He’d been trying to live in the moment, appreciate what happiness he was given. And he _did_ appreciate it. And Eliot was making him very, very happy.

He’d looked somewhat helplessly at Ted. “I don’t know, Ted.” He’d swallowed, tried to remember who was the more experienced person, here. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in love. I think I _could be,_ if I let myself. He’s certainly...”

He hadn’t known how to put it. Eliot was everything Quentin wanted. He didn’t feel like he should be allowed to have him.

“You adore him, it’s obvious,” Ted supplied.

“Yes. But I’m...” Quentin felt this almost preemptive sorrow. _“Ted,_ I could never give him a _normal life.”_

And there it was, wasn’t it? He couldn’t give Arielle a normal life, and even though she loved him, she’d suffered for it. Ted had just looked at him with kind patience, though. 

“Well, maybe he wouldn’t mind,” he’d said. “You shouldn’t make that decision for him.”

It feels like there’s a lock, some kind of puzzle piece missing, to let Quentin open his heart. To allow it to take the incredible fondness and softness, the care and high regard and appreciation that he feels for Eliot and coalesce it, alchemically, into love. There’s something. He can’t just _decide_ to fall in love. But what that key or missing piece would be, Quentin doesn’t know. 

“Ted,” he’d asked, a little overwhelmed, with his head in his hand, “what do you suggest I do?” 

“You have feelings for him? Of maybe not the capital L variety, but possibly not far off?” 

“Yes.” It had felt good, if a bit terrifying, to admit it. 

“Well, you said you’d keep an open mind. Try to have an open heart. And in the meantime, don’t say anything stupid.”

“Oh hang on,” Quentin had deadpanned at Ted, “let me write that one down.” 

“Hey, he seems like a real sweetheart,” Ted had held his hands up in front of him like he was perfectly innocent. “Just don’t get scared and push him away. I think I’d like to see Eliot in your life. I mean long-term.”

And okay, Quentin’s wasn’t going to lie to himself or Ted about how much he’d like that, too. But the idea that a man like Eliot would want to have a long-term relationship with someone who never grew old, someone who had to hide from the world, at least once Eliot realized what that would actually be like—well, it seemed far-fetched. Ted didn’t necessarily think so. 

Before they’ll be able to think about the future, however, Quentin’s secret will have to come out. And once again, the cart is going before the horse: before he tells Eliot about his past, Quentin thinks he should be sure of his own feelings.

But... if Eliot _does_ love him... maybe there’s a chance it won’t ruin everything? 

#

So, all of that was on Monday night. Ted’s let him off the hook, somewhat, since then—since the whole “I think he’s in love with you, keep that in mind” talk. And maybe it _has_ changed how he is with Eliot, a little bit. If anything, Quentin is letting himself lean into Eliot’s affection a bit more consciously, feeling what it feels like to be cared for by this man. He also just... he really wants to take him on dates, all right? And buy him gifts. And, you know, kiss him constantly.

Last night, Wednesday night, Quentin asked Eliot if he’d like to go somewhere, outside of the city. There’s a town called Jinja that they can visit on Saturday morning, with attractions at “the source of the Nile.” There will be tourists there, they might blend in a little—they can make it romantic, in a stealthy sort of way. Eliot agreed, so in addition to spending their evenings together, and planning to spend the weekend together, they have an actual date coming up.

“So I’ll have to spend hours keeping my hands off you, more or less?” Eliot had asked, with his hands very much _on_ Quentin, pressing his nose up along the back of his neck and murmuring into his ear.

“Ha. Well. I mean... more or less. Maybe we could...rent a car, drive ourselves?” Eliot was being very, very distracting, at that point, fisting his fingers at the back of Quentin’s head and pulling lightly on his hair, and licking, hot, against the tender skin behind his ear. “But just think what it will be like when we get back.” 

“Like this, I imagine...” Eliot had mused, as he pressed the whole length of his body tight and warm against the back of Quentin’s, “...only more.” 

“Exactly.”

So. Things are good. _Very_ good.

#

It’s Thursday afternoon, now, and Quentin hasn’t seen Eliot today. They’re working on being discreet, worried that Quentin’s colleagues will begin to suspect something if they don’t vary their pattern a little, so Quentin was sure to be seen doing other things, today. He had lunch at the canteen, with a group of nurses that he hadn’t joined in a while. A break in the rain gave him a chance to go for a solitary walk. It was all fine, it was nice, but he did miss Eliot. Having lunch with him and getting to kiss him in his office are two of Quentin’s favorite things, but also, he just... misses him. They have plans after work, though. Quentin is careful to pay attention to his patients; he’ll be in Eliot’s arms soon.

A little before four o’clock Quentin gets a call. He’s just finished up with a patient, and has to dry his hands from washing up before he can reach for his phone. Looking down at the screen, he feels his stomach drop. It’s Julia, calling from Baltimore. 

Julia Wicker is not someone who usually calls Quentin. She occupies a very special place in his life with Ted, as the only person who ever just _figured out their secret,_ simply by being imaginative and extremely bright. She was a teenager when this happened—she met them when they moved back to Baltimore in 2009 and got involved in the music scene. Then she insisted that Ted hire her as an assistant when he opened his shop. The girl basically harassed the pair of them for months before they finally sat her down and admitted she was right. 

Now, at twenty-six, Julia still helps out with the shop, and more importantly to Quentin, she keeps an eye on Ted. The two of them are quite close friends; Quentin considers them equally matched in stubbornness. Julia keeps Ted on his toes, constantly introducing him to new artists and ideas and challenging what she calls his “old white guy band teacher” opinions about jazz. In other words, she’s delightful, and a huge help.

But now, something must be wrong.

“Julia?” Quentin says as he answers. “What’s going on?”

“Quentin.” Her voice sounds strained but relieved. “Ted had a fall.”

“ _Oh god_... is he okay?” The edges of dread, fuzzy and dark, push against Quentin’s mind, but he tries to think clearly. It’s hard to get a full breath—he walks to a chair and lowers himself down.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I called you as soon as I could. I can’t use my cell phone in the ICU...”

“He’s in the ICU?” Quentin can feel his heart pounding.

“They just moved him to a regular room. He fractured a hip, and hit his head, but he doesn’t have a concussion. They think he’ll probably heal without surgery, it’s only a small spiral fracture. I’m sorry, Quentin,” her voice seems to crack, “I found him in the shop. He was alone for a couple of hours.” 

“Okay um,” Quentin says. “Is he conscious? Is he medicated for pain? I need to talk to him, and I need to talk to his attending physician, and his regular doctor. Are they letting you see him?”

“Well, yeah, _obviously._ I told them I was his granddaughter.”

 _Thank god._ “Perfect. Thank you.”

“He _is_ medicated for pain,” she continues, “and they gave him a sedative, so he’s asleep. But he was conscious up until just recently. Kind of bitchy with the doctors, but he was a total gentleman with the nurses. I think he was mostly embarrassed.” 

Okay, okay, good. _That’s my Ted._ Quentin takes some deep breaths while he gets the details about the hospital from Julia. He has to be pragmatic. He gives her instructions about what to pick up for Ted from the apartment, including his laptop, his lap blanket and robe and slippers, warm socks, pajamas, to make sure he has his phone and glasses and his wallet and keys, the newspaper. She’ll call him back. In the meantime, Quentin has to try to reach the attending, and Ted’s PCP.

He’s able to find another physician to fill in for his own final appointment of the day, and gets on the phone. Hospital bureaucracy does not make it easy. By the time he’s mostly in the loop about Ted’s condition and has convinced the hospital that he’s the responsible party, it’s nearly 6pm. Quentin hangs up, exhausted, and looks at his phone screen. He has a text from Eliot.

_Hey, is everything okay?_

Oh shit, he was supposed to be over there by now, and he didn’t even text. Eliot will probably understand, but... 

_Eliot, I’m sorry! Ted had a fall. He’s in the hospital in Baltimore. I’ve been on the phone for two hours._

It only takes a few moments for Eliot’s text to come in:

_Oh god. I’m sorry. How is he? I’ll be right there._

A beat passes, during which Quentin is _stunningly_ relieved.

_If that’s okay. (is that okay?)_

He composes himself and hurries to respond:

_Yes. Please. He’s stable and asleep. I’m going to plug my phone in. See you in a few?_

There are little bubbles for a moment, telling him Eliot is typing. Then they disappear. Then they come back.

_I’m on my way._

Quentin makes sure he has all of the relevant names and phone numbers written down while his phone is charging. He sends a quick group email to Estella, Tick, and the administrators in Obstetrics and Pediatrics, letting them know that he’s had an emergency in his family and may need to cancel some appointments, and will keep them informed. He texts Julia again to ask if there’s been any change, because he’s worried. She’s in a taxi and hasn’t heard anything.

Quentin’s heart leaps when Eliot’s knock comes on the door. He lets him in as quickly as he can and Eliot immediately pulls him into a tight hug. It’s like... it’s like Quentin deflates, a little, some of the tension he’s been holding just escaping from his body. Tucked against Eliot’s chest, he imagines the stress pouring out of him like bubbling water, running over his skin and through his feet and into the floor. 

He didn’t quite realize how tight he was holding on, and as he lets go Quentin feels a little self-conscious. “Sorry, I...”

“Oh no, don’t be.” Eliot reaches to touch the side of Quentin’s head, and runs his fingers along his cheek and jaw. “What happened?”

Quentin gathers his things as he explains what he knows about the fall, (not much,) and about Ted’s condition so far. He slips his phone into his raincoat pocket. “I’m really sorry about our plans, but I should probably go back to my place, I think. I’ve got my phone charged enough that it should be okay if I get a call while I’m walking, and Julia’s bringing Ted his laptop, so I should have my notebook in case he calls—it would help so much to see him. I still don’t know how he fell. Would you... I mean...”

Quentin stalls out, not sure what to ask for. He’s just glad Eliot came.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to walk anywhere,” Eliot tells him. “I called a car, it’s waiting for us outside.”

Oh. It hadn’t even occurred to Quentin that he could do that. Eliot puts his hands on the tops of Quentin’s shoulders and catches his eyes. 

“If you want to go home, let’s take you home. You can drop me off at the guest house, or I can drop you off at your house. Or, I can come over and keep you company. Make you dinner, harass some doctors, try to cheer Ted up... whatever you need.” 

Oh he’s... oh that’s... Quentin is a little overwhelmed by the kindness, but he’ll take it. He’ll absolutely take it.

“Okay, yeah. Please. Come over.”

Eliot smiles at him. His eyes are so soft, and he looks relieved. He pulls Quentin into another brief hug, then turns to the door with his arm still around his shoulders. “Okay. Let’s go.”

#

They make their way out the back of the building and through the dim rain to the car that’s waiting for them on the road, where Eliot ushers Quentin into the back seat and slides in beside him, giving instructions to the driver. It’s a short drive, and Quentin is still plenty keyed-up and worried, but he’s so grateful for Eliot’s help. Eliot pays the driver and holds his large umbrella over them both as they make their way up to the house and while Quentin lets them in. 

“Let me try checking in with Julia again.” They’re shrugging out of their raincoats and Eliot’s hanging them on the pegs beside the door. 

“Of course. Do what you need to do.” Eliot has got his wet boots off, somehow without any struggle or hopping at all, and is lining them up on the small mat against the wall. “Would you like me to put the kettle on and start some tea?”

“Oh god, yes. Please.” There’s something else Quentin wants—he hopes it will be all right? “Um just... could I?” He brings his hand to Eliot’s shoulder, then brushes his fingers gently up his neck to his jaw and looks into his eyes. Eliot must read Quentin’s nervous, frantic mind. He pulls him in, hand against the back of his head, for a firm, sweet kiss. Quentin feels himself relax even more, settling into it. _Damn,_ it’s like _magic,_ how Eliot can calm him with a kiss.

Eliot lets him go with a sweet smile, and Quentin has to chuckle, a little abashed. Eliot touches his chin with his fingers. “Go ahead,” he says softly, “go call Julia.”

He does, while he sets up Ted-status-central on the coffee table. She’s made it back to the hospital with Ted’s things, but he’s still asleep. They’re letting her sit with him in his room, so she’s been setting everything up for him, but outside in the hall on the phone she sounds like a pacing bundle of nerves. Quentin can’t do much to take care of Ted right now, but he can take care of Julia, so he asks her when she last ate and sets her the tasks of going to the cafeteria for a sandwich and one of those bottled smoothies for herself, and then the gift shop to see if they have any sunflowers (Ted’s favorite,) and then texting him to check in when she gets back to the room. 

“I’m going to wire you some money for expenses, yours and Ted’s, while this is going on,” he tells her. “Please accept it, and let me know if it runs out.” 

Julia resists that a little bit, but finally gives in, and as Quentin gets off the phone and sits back on the sofa, dropping his head into his hands and taking a deep breath, Eliot arrives beside him with a cup of tea. 

“Thank you. There haven’t been any changes.” He takes a grateful sip of the tea. It’s sweet, creamy and very hot, and feels wonderful on his throat. Eliot’s large, warm hand finds Quentin’s back and begins rubbing slow circles over it, which is nice and grounding, and as welcome as the cup in his hands.

“Anything I can do to help?” 

Quentin is so grateful for his kindness. He leans a little into Eliot’s hand, and looks up into his warm, concerned eyes. “Yeah, um. Can you make us food, please? Just something simple? Thank you for the tea, this is wonderful.”

Eliot gives him a kind little smile and a quick kiss on the cheek and gets up, his hand sliding elegantly across Quentin’s back and off his shoulder. “I’ll be happy to.”

Quentin gets to work sending money to Julia, and then emailing PDFs of Ted’s legal paperwork to the hospital administrator, with copies of his Release of Information to the attending physician and the nurse’s station. Julia texts twice in half an hour to tell him that Ted’s still asleep and everything’s fine. 

Dear lord, he feels so old, at the moment. He pinches the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows, and lets out an exhausted sigh, hunched over his knees and with his hair falling around his face. 

“Is this a good time?” Quentin looks up as Eliot glides in to sit next to him on the sofa, radiating grace and kind warmth. He presses a wide bowl into Quentin’s hands; it feels very warm against his skin. “Maybe this will help.”

“What did you make? It smells so good.” 

“Eggs and rice,” Eliot says lightly. “Bit of onion and some greens, butter, salt and pepper. Nice and simple.”

It’s so welcome. Quentin feels a little emotional. 

“Thank you. This is perfect.”

It is. It’s great. Comforting and easy, and as Quentin gets some food in him he begins to feel more solid again. They sit back against the sofa with their feet up and eat. Quentin lets himself enjoy the good food and even better company, listening to Eliot’s voice and feeling the contact where their arms press together between them, and manages not to worry too much for a short while. 

After numerous attempts and the emailing of another release, Quentin is finally able to speak with the radiologist responsible for reading Ted’s CT scan. The results are inconclusive. Ted _may_ have had a minor ischemic event—a very small stroke—but she can’t see any blood clots in the scan. There are no signs of irregularities in his brain, and his doctor will be running related tests. It’s frustratingly imprecise; it’s a bit frightening and only slightly reassuring. 

Eliot makes more tea. He washes the dishes. He even rubs Quentin’s feet through his socks, at one point, when the tension of waiting is starting to get to him. Quentin wants to give him a whole drawer-full of cashmere sweaters. 

“You’re very good at this,” Eliot observes.

“At what?” Quentin mostly feels tired. And still afraid.

“You know. Hospital logistics. Handling everything. ‘Adulting.’”

In spite of himself, Quentin starts to laugh. He’s aware that he probably seems insane, and gets himself under control fairly quickly. “Sorry... sorry. Just. Worry-fatigue, probably.” _Adulting._ “Yeah, um,” Quentin continues, with a little wheeze. ”Just a lot of hospital experience, I know how this stuff works, mostly.” 

Quentin turns back to Eliot, who is looking at him so patiently and like he cares and just wants to _help,_ rather than like Quentin’s a lunatic. “I should probably tell you that there’s a very good chance that I’ll freak out later. This is me in crisis-mode, you know, handling things. But, um. I can get pretty emotional _after_ an emergency. If you don’t want to be here for that, I would totally understand.” 

Eliot swallows. He looks like he’s getting ready to say something, and wants to say it carefully. Finally he looks Quentin gently in the eye. “I don’t want to overstep,” he begins, and Quentin suddenly feels this weird hope that he doesn’t even have time to figure out what it is before Eliot continues. “If you want privacy, of _course_ I’ll let you be. But... Quentin, if you want me to stay... I won’t leave you alone, to go through this. I want to be here.” 

That’s just... goodness. He’s so sweet, so lovely. Quentin takes Eliot’s hand, gratefully, and gives it a squeeze. He leans his head on his shoulder. 

“Okay,” he says. “Please. Stay with me. The hiding, all that—we’ll figure it out. Okay?”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Eliot says, wrapping his arm around Quentin. His voice is soft and steady and the sound of it, the sound of _sweetheart,_ is so nice. “I’m right here.”

#

Eventually, Julia texts that Ted is awake, and seems to be okay. She has to wait in the hallway while doctors and nurses are in the room with him, but after that they’ll call.

Quentin wishes he could be there. He wants to know what’s going on, what tests they’re running and what they’re telling him. He wants to hold his hand if he needs it and make sure he has his glasses. Julia assures him that Ted began joking immediately when he woke up, albeit in an ornery way. That is frankly a very good sign.

It’s a long twenty minutes before he hears back from her again, but thank god this time it’s both of them, on Skype. 

Ted is front and center, sitting up in the bed and holding the screen on his lap, wearing a hospital gown and with his hair tucked back and his glasses on. He manages a wry little smile, and Quentin is so relieved to see him, he lets out a huge breath. 

“Ted,” he says. He almost calls him ‘honey’ with everyone around, like he’s still a boy, but manages to hold it in. “Am I glad to see you. How are you feeling?”

“Well...” Ted begins slowly, his voice a little scratchy. “I’ve had better days, but not too terrible. I’m a little bruised up and they won’t let me get out of this bed.” He looks at Quentin more closely, and must see some of the frantic worry on his face. “Hey, hey. I’m okay,” he says softly. “Don’t worry. Do you have Eliot there with you?”

“Yeah, um. He’s been with me all evening. He’s in the kitchen, trying to give us space.” 

“Go on, call him in. We’ll make it a party.”

Quentin calls to Eliot and he’s there right away, settling down beside him and wrapping a long arm around his shoulders.

“Good.” Ted says, and gestures to the other side of his room. “Julia, come over here and join in. The more the merrier.” 

Julia scoots into the camera frame and sits next to Ted on the edge of the hospital bed.

“All right,” Ted continues. “Julia, remember I told you how Quentin has a sweetheart these days? Here he is. And Eliot, this is Julia, who’s as good a friend as an old man could ask for.”

“Hi.” Julia smiles and does a little wave.

Eliot nods at her. “It’s a pleasure.”

Ted seems to be in the mood to direct the conversation. “So, now that no one’s hovering off-camera,” he says with a grin, “they’re telling me I may need to be here for a week. I’ll spare you the jokes about dismal hospital food, at least for now—I’m just glad I won’t need surgery. But I have to stay off my hip.”

“Ted,” Quentin has to ask, “do you have any idea why you fell?”

“None whatsoever. There were no banana peels on the floor. I don’t remember feeling faint. Pretty sure it wasn’t ninjas.” There’s a wry little smile in his eyes. _Of course_ Ted is joking at a time like this. “Before you ask, yes I did lose consciousness; no I don’t know for how long. I was awake when Julia came into the shop, and for a while before that.” 

Quentin must have gone pale or something, because Ted looks right at him. “Quentin.” Quentin can practically hear him mentally saying _Pops._ “Hey. I’m _fine._ It wasn’t that harrowing. Annoying, sure. And a little boring. I had to just lay there and _think about things.”_ He says this with a smile, obviously concerned for Quentin’s mental state. He’s such a sweetheart.

“Had you. Um. I’m sure they must have asked, but had you eaten this morning, before you went in?” 

“Nah,” Ted waves the question away, “just coffee. But that’s not unusual, you know how my stomach is in the morning.” He looks at Quentin, clearly reading the skepticism on his face. “Look, they’re doing tests, they’ll probably figure it out. Try not to worry, please. I’d like to think you’re okay. Did you boys eat supper?”

“Yeah, we did. Eliot cooked.” Eliot gives his shoulders a squeeze. 

“Good, good. Thank you,” Ted says to Eliot, then turns back to Quentin, “I won’t worry about you.”

If Eliot feels uncomfortable being included in this very odd family-like meeting, he doesn’t show it. He radiates warmth and steady, comforting presence, with his arm solidly around Quentin’s shoulders.

Quentin takes a few minutes to explain to Ted how he’s trying to be in touch with his doctors, and that he wants to know exactly what’s going on. He’s going to talk to the neurologist, and have a colleague take a look at Ted’s x-rays. He’s not ruling out pushing for an MRI. Ted, bless him, is fine with all of this. They also discuss how, regardless of what caused the fall, Ted will probably need nursing care for a while after he’s released—well beyond what Julia could or should do.

“Let’s agree right now that you’re not being transferred to a nursing home,” Quentin tells him. “All right? We’ll find a way to hire a private nurse or aide if we need to.” 

“Okay well, I appreciate that. I can cash in some bonds, if need be.”

“Julia,” Quentin asks, ”can you track down the hospital social worker and ask for recommendations for agencies? I want to try to do decent research.”

“On it,” she says. Good, then.

They get a few more logistics figured out. They’ll keep the shop closed for now, but Julia, who is fourth-chair cello in the symphony orchestra and shouldn’t be missing practices, will go back to work tomorrow. It’s only about two in the afternoon in Baltimore; she and Ted still have a long day ahead of them. 

“Now, I don’t want you staying up all night calling doctors,” Ted tells him. “Get some sleep. I’ll still be here tomorrow, I’m fine and perfectly safe.”

“When I wake up, you’ll be going to sleep,” Quentin points out. Jesus, he’ll have to wait until early afternoon to even start to get any updates. “Okay, I’ll try to sleep on the condition that you text me before you go to bed, all right? Let me know how you’re doing.” 

“Yeah all right,” Ted agrees, soft and concerned. “I can do that. I’ll text you. You take a break. We’ll let you know if anything major happens, right Julia?”

“Yep,” she says. “Don’t worry, Q, I’ll look out for him.”

“Thank you,” Quentin tells them both, then turns to Ted. “Ted, I love you. I’m relieved you’re okay.”

“Me too. And I love you, too. I’ll check in before I go to bed. Eliot, good to see you again, glad you’re there.” He gives them both a warm smile, and Eliot and Julia say good night before they disconnect the call. 

#

Quentin just sits there, for a couple of minutes, resting against Eliot’s shoulder and wrapped in his arm. He reaches out to take his hand and holds it in the silence for a bit before he turns to him. “Thank you, Eliot.” 

Eliot pulls Quentin’s head in and kisses him on the forehead. “It really is my pleasure."

Quentin gets a couple more things done, sending the hospital doctor an email asking to be notified of test results right away and putting in a request for the hip x-rays. He goes through one more text exchange with Julia, because he’s worried about whether Ted’s eaten today, before he finally makes himself pack everything up for the night. 

“Here’s what I propose,” Eliot says, pulling Quentin up off the sofa and rubbing his neck and shoulders while Quentin slumps, grateful, against his chest. “Let me stay here with you tonight, help you sleep, at least for five or six hours. I’ll slip away before dawn, like clandestine lovers of old.”

Quentin huffs a laugh into his shirt, and Eliot continues. “I’ll walk the long way up the road and come back through the neighborhoods on the east side of the hill, so it won’t look anything like I’ve come from your place. I may have thought this through once or twice.”

“That’s a long walk,” Quentin protests, still pressed against Eliot and bringing his arms around to hook at the small of his back. “Maybe three miles? In the dark, in the rain...”

“Think nothing of it,” Eliot hushes him. “I enjoy a little drama from time to time. Then, if you still want me here for the weekend, starting tomorrow night I’m all yours.”

 _Oh, if only,_ Quentin’s mind supplies, unhelpfully, once again. He squeezes Eliot around his middle. “I do want you here,” he tells him, and feels Eliot draw in a breath. “If you really don’t mind, please stay. And be here for the weekend.” He leans back to look at him, and finds Eliot smiling at him softly. “I’m sorry, we may not make it to Jinja, though. This, with Ted, is all just...” He flails around for a word for a moment, shaking his head.

“I know,” Eliot says, and just hugs him back.

Quentin manages to stay away from the phone and the tablet and the whole stressful _thing,_ as they bring their tea and some fruit that Eliot cut up and move to the bedroom to wind down. Eliot has been so wonderful all evening, and Quentin just wants to... to _be with him,_ as much as he can. 

They bundle up at the head of the bed and eat diced mango, Eliot in a pair of borrowed pajama pants that hit him just below the knee. It’s not really very cold, and he declined a tee shirt, which is... distracting. And lovely. Not a problem in any way, really.

“Eliot,” Quentin has to ask, “are you doing all right? I’ve been so wrapped up, and you’ve been so sweet, taking care of me, but...”

Eliot just wraps both of his arms around Quentin, pulls him over to lean more fully against his chest, and kisses his hair. “Mmm,” he says. “I like to. Crisis aside, I’m happy.”

“You do? You are?” 

“Mhmm.” Eliot takes a bite of mango and leans to kiss Quentin on the cheek, then nuzzles his nose into his hair. “Oh,” he says, clearly remembering something, “Julia called you ‘Q.’ Is that just her thing? It’s very cute.”

“Oh, um.” Quentin tries to focus. Eliot is very distracting. “She just uh, started doing that. When we all became friends. She was a teen, so... maybe she thought she could make ‘Quentin’ cooler? Don’t know. I like it, though.” 

“Well, _I_ like ‘Quentin.’ But ‘Q’ is very sweet. Can I use it?” 

“You’d like to call me ‘Q’?”

“Sometimes, yes. But I’ll admit,” he says with a grin, “I’m sure I won’t mean it in a friend-way.”

 _Oh._ Quentin feels he might blush. He ducks his head, but then he just has to ask: “Can I call you ‘El?’”

Eliot smiles at him. A wide, beautiful smile, in fact. “You can. You and Margo.”

“I don’t mean in a friend-way, either,” Quentin clarifies. 

“Q. Sweetheart.” Eliot says, reaching for the back of his neck and pulling him in to kiss. “Come here.

He does. Quentin goes, happily, and then climbs up over Eliot’s lap, to kiss him more. 

“El,” he murmurs, when Eliot leaves his lips to begin kissing along his neck and his ear and behind his jaw, moving his head where he wants it with his big, gentle hands. “El, El El... _El.”_

Quentin wouldn’t have thought he’d have the energy for sex, or the interest, after everything he’s been through today, but he does. It feels like such a gift, even an act of grace, to be able to share this with Eliot. He sheds his shirt and sinks into the circle of Eliot’s arms, pulls him close with his legs and savors the warm, close press of their bodies, and kisses and kisses him. 

He’s wonderful. Eliot is so much more than just a lover, and Quentin feels like he doesn’t deserve him. But here he is, and Quentin realizes, as he kisses him, that he’s so grateful, really. He’s so grateful to have lived long enough to be able to know him. 

Quentin pours himself into showing Eliot how much he adores him, how he trusts him, how he _wants him,_ and yet he feels so tender. Vulnerable. Eliot seems to know, to just understand, that Quentin’s been through an ordeal; he knows that Quentin needs to be held, this time, when Quentin himself didn’t know, not really... it’s been so long, since he could count on such comfort from a lover, since he could just let go. 

Eliot holds Quentin and kisses him and lets Quentin put his lips all over his beautiful body. He touches him with his gorgeous, graceful hands. He pulls moans from his throat and kisses gasps from his lips, kisses his eyes, holds his head to his chest where Quentin can hear his beating heart.

“Darling,” Quentin says, with tears wetting his eyes, as he sits in the cradle of Eliot’s thighs, his legs wrapped around his hips as Eliot strokes them together with one large hand and holds him up with the other snug around his back. He isn’t going anywhere with that statement, he’s just overcome with feeling, with gratitude and affection and wonder. “Darling... Eliot... _El.”_

Eliot kisses Quentin with remarkable tenderness and holds him there in his lap, holds him up, and with careful skill he draws them slowly, and then passionately, to a _marvelous_ simultaneous climax. Quentin lets himself float, held and taken care of, and is entirely caught up in the heady, bright, intimate rush of release and how beautifully, magnificently erotic Eliot is when he comes. 

Quentin falls asleep, a little later, in Eliot’s arms. He curls up, pajamas forgotten, with his head on Eliot’s chest and his arm around him, an excellent fit. His phone is charging on his writing desk, waiting for Ted’s evening text, and Eliot’s has an alarm set, so he can leave before dawn. 

“Make sure I’m awake to say goodbye before you go,” Quentin asks him. “I’m going to need to kiss you again in the morning.”

“Of course,” Eliot assures him. His voice is so gentle. “But kiss me now, too.”

He does. He kisses Eliot softly, gratefully, before he settles back into his arms. He might be alarmed, by the realizations that come to him as he’s falling asleep, if he weren’t so relaxed and so safe and so very tired. Quentin is going back to Baltimore... and he is completely in love.


	16. Chapter 16

The upper stretch of Old Mulago Hill Road is a bit rougher than the rest, the kind of bumpy, rutted dirt road that Eliot’s Gran would have laughingly called “fluffy.” Meandering around the east side of the hill and curving to the north, it passes through poorer areas with fewer trees before emptying out into a neighborhood that pours like shingles down the remaining slope. Eliot pauses to look out over the roofs of the tiny homes, wet and reflecting the moonlight in shades of grey and muted blue. He takes a deep breath of cool, damp air. It’s peaceful; beautiful in the way that the spread and flow and collective, cooperative work of humanity is beautiful, the way that people transform the places they inhabit. 

He takes a moment to just look, and feel himself standing there in the pre-dawn dimness: his body, tall and thin, chilly at the extremities and somewhat tired but also strong and healthy, wrapped in a raincoat and boots through which he can feel the rock and dirt of the hillside path. He feels himself a part of the community of humanity, a perspective that has been his companion for a decade, and looking down the hillside Eliot thinks he understands why Quentin is here, and how he fits into this place. 

The walk back to the guesthouse, so far, is turning out to be as peaceful and romantic as he expected, even though he has to watch his footing. He’d risen and dressed at four-thirty, careful not to wake Quentin until he was bundled up and ready to go. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he’d taken Quentin’s hand and stroked his cheek, said, “Sweetheart, I have to go” when Quentin blearily opened his eyes. Quentin had squeezed his hand and just looked at him so softly for a moment, then blinked and said, “I know you do, come and kiss me, darling,” and touched the side of Eliot’s face gently as he kissed him goodbye. Eliot had nearly said “I love you.” He’d thought it. Instead he’d kissed Quentin’s soft, sweet lips, and said, “go back to sleep, baby. I’ll see you in a few hours.” 

Eliot picks his way downhill, past cars and bicycles and apartments and shacks, little gardens and plantain plots and culverts where water runs down the slope. He’s looking for a road, at the bottom of the hill, and eventually he finds it. Opening his umbrella as the rain starts to fall again, he heads into a ramshackle commercial area, where shops shuttered for the night sit close together on either side of the narrow street, with apartments above them. It’s strange to feel alone and yet not alone at all, walking on this road at this very odd hour, with people sleeping all around behind closed doors. Eliot shoulders his umbrella and makes himself walk quickly, head down, aware that the area could be more dangerous than it looks. 

Eventually he makes it past the shops and back into the deserted streets that blend into the hospital complex. He turns onto another dirt road, Owen Road, that curves around to the west and will eventually let him cut across some fields and up toward the guesthouse. The sky is beginning to lighten, more colors coming into the world beyond the dripping edges of his umbrella. He hopes that Quentin is still asleep—he deserves the rest, after the day he just had. 

Does Quentin know how he feels, Eliot wonders? He must have some idea at least? Quentin couldn’t have been thinking about it yesterday, though. Eliot had just been sort of... sidling up to the edges of formulating a plan. The plan would include, he’d thought, something terribly romantic—the grandest gesture possible, preferably, when one is closeted and in love in a hostile foreign land. He wants to pour his heart out to Quentin, tell him that loves him, ask him to _be_ with him. It’s objectively terrifying, but Eliot’s low-stakes “romantic interlude while traveling for work” has transformed into what feels like the pivot point of his entire _life._ Not to be a dramatic bitch, _(thank you,_ _Margo,)_ but that is _exactly_ how it feels. If Eliot fucks this up, if he just lets Quentin go, he thinks he will probably regret it for the rest of his life. 

Now, however, there’s much more going on than just continuing to hide their affair and figuring out how best to use the next two weeks to somehow woo Quentin into letting Eliot be his very serious boyfriend. Eliot certainly can’t tell him now, not when Quentin’s dealing with a crisis. If Quentin wasn’t comfortable with Eliot’s feelings... god, it would be a disaster, and if Eliot couldn’t do anything to help him through this, and if anything more happened to Ted... 

Eliot tries to remind himself that Quentin is a particularly competent adult, and he’s perfectly capable of handling himself in a crisis, but the _very thought_ of having to leave him alone if Ted should, god forbid, have a stroke or something... somehow it’s more horrible than the idea that Quentin might not be quite ready for a big love confession, might feel awkward or need more time or (okay, Eliot feels his stomach plummet at this thought,) might just reject him outright, not wanting anything more than a few weeks with him. All right, that thought is _horrible,_ it would break Eliot’s heart. But he’s going to at least try. Just... he can’t, right now. 

Eliot trudges through the shallow puddles, reflecting the silvery grey-blue light of the sky, on the uneven sidewalk on this (unusually) paved stretch of road curling around the south side of the Mulago Hospital complex. His feet are dry in his duck boots, but cold. _No,_ Eliot resolves, he’ll do the best he can to support the man he’s in love with and not put additional pressure on him when he’s already overwhelmed. He’s not actually trying to let himself off the hook, but grand gestures and love confessions and Eliot’s hopes for a real relationship with Quentin will have to wait.

#

Back at the guest house at last, Eliot takes a very hot shower and lets the water beat down over his face and the heat soak into his chilled bones. He considers going back to bed, tired as he is, but instead he heats up some water and makes instant coffee—weird little packets of Starbucks stuff that are actually not bad—and sits on his couch to work on his report. He doesn’t have any appointments this morning, and doesn’t feel quite up to dealing with Director Pickwick and everyone at the administration building just now, but there’s plenty he can do right where he is. Eventually he gets dressed and heads out to grab some real coffee and breakfast from the guesthouse lobby. It’s actually a very productive morning. Eliot has so much going on, emotionally, that it’s a bit of a relief to just kind of put it in a box for fiveish hours and think about medical practices and patient outcomes. 

His concentration begins slipping around half-past eleven. How is Quentin doing? Is he all right, probably back from pediatrics by now, bundled up in his office? Eliot wants to see him. He wants to hold him, kiss him, rub the tension out of his shoulders... He sends him a text:

_Hey, how are you doing? Can I bring you lunch?_

He can’t add anything very personal, sadly— no heart emojis, even. Fucking Uganda—Eliot’s love-hate relationship with this beautiful but perilous part of the world is very real. Quentin’s little bubbles appear, and then he texts back:

_I’m okay. Let me bring lunch to you. Meet at the guesthouse?_

_Perfect. I’m already here._

When Quentin arrives, small and blustery and dripping with his zip-up raincoat and hat over his work clothes and carrying a plastic bag with lunch from the canteen, Eliot ushers him in as quickly as he can and locks the door behind him.

“Eliot,” Quentin sounds very relieved to see him. “Let me just...”

“Here, let me,” Eliot says, taking his umbrella and the bag while Quentin gets his wet coat off. After hanging his coat and hat on the hook beside the door, Quentin turns to Eliot and reaches for him, sliding his hand around Eliot’s waist. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to step into his space and wrap Quentin in his arms, scoop him up and stoop down to kiss him. The way Quentin settles when Eliot kisses him, his hand wrapped warm around the nape of his neck, the way he just relaxes and opens to the kiss, melts into Eliot’s embrace... it’s flattering and comforting and wonderful, already one of Eliot’s favorite things in the world.

Quentin pulls back from the kiss, eventually, and settles his hand on Eliot’s chest, over his heart. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s have lunch. I have to talk to you about something.”

Eliot already has the table cleared and set, so it doesn’t take long to get things ready, and he tries not to wind himself up with worry while they get settled. Quentin has brought warm wraps with chicken and vegetables and matoke, and a container of hot, spicy, peanutty soup. It’s lovely, but Eliot is anxious, of course. He takes Quentin’s hand across the little table.

“What’s going on, sweetheart?”

When Quentin looks up into Eliot’s eyes his expression is kind, but his face is weighed down with regret. “Eliot,” he presses his lips together and takes a little breath, “I’m going to have to leave Kampala. I need to be back in Baltimore, with Ted. It’s sooner than I thought it would be, but it’s time.”

Eliot feels Quentin holding tight to his fingers, not letting go. He takes a breath. This is not the worst news Quentin could have brought, not by a long way. At least Ted is okay, but it’s going to be so hard for Quentin to leave his life here—Eliot’s already beginning to worry.

“When do you have to go?”

“I think in about a week.” Quentin is gripping Eliot’s hand, still, and also looking right in his eyes. “Ted should be safe in the hospital, and I have to make a lot of arrangements really quickly—with my patients, and my practice, my house and everything. But, _El_...” He looks pained, actually, “...we were supposed to have two more weeks together. Romantic, um, lovely, sexy weeks. But I can’t, now. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, _hey.”_ Eliot is not thinking about the lost time. He’s thinking about not losing _Quentin._ “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. Don’t be sorry.” He reaches out with the hand not holding Quentin’s and cups his cheek, pressing his fingertips up into his hair at his temple. Quentin blinks and looks questioningly into Eliot’s eyes.

“We still have a week, here, in Kampala. Let me help you.”

“I...” Quentin swallows. “Really?”

His pressing needs to reassure Quentin and also _fix this_ are making Eliot think surprisingly clearly. “I’m probably not going to stay longer, if you’re not here—I can get the report wrapped up. Maybe we can fly out together. Margo’s a wizard with making things happen. If you’re okay with it, we can get her to help plan. I’ll help you pack up... whatever you need.”

“I. God, okay. Yeah.” Quentin gets up from the table and comes around to where Eliot is seated. He slides his arms around him and Eliot immediately stands up and pulls him in and just holds him, arms around him and his hand cradling Quentin's head against his shoulder. 

Eliot wants to tell Quentin that he loves him. He wants to reassure him that _of course_ he’ll be there, however he can. The plan he's already made keeps his breath stuck in his chest. Instead, eventually, he says, “Um so, since you’re leaving on such short notice, would it make, perchance, _cultural sense_ if you had a friend come stay with you to help you pack up and get ready to go? Especially since you’re also handling a family crisis?”

Quentin takes a moment, presumably to process that suggestion, then leans back in Eliot’s arms. He looks up at him with those beautiful, warm brown eyes, full of what looks like a whole host of emotions. Finally, he just reaches his hand into the back of Eliot’s hair and lifts up to kiss him. 

It’s so sweet. Such a tender kiss. When Quentin falls back to his heels, he keeps his eyes closed for a moment, then opens them and says. “Yeah that’s... that’s an excellent idea. I’ll tell a few people that you, um, kindly offered. You can let the front desk staff know.” 

Eliot feels himself slowly smiling. “I’ll keep the room anyway, and we can use it if we want to. Workspace, lunches, whatever. In case you need some solitude, I can come back, it’ll be here. It’s already paid for.”

“Okay.” Quentin smiles softly at him, and then hugs him again, holding tight. “That’s perfect.”

Lunch is strangely quiet after that, both of them probably thinking about all of it, but they keep hold of each other’s hands, across the little table. Quentin has to go back to work, after. He’s been contacting colleagues and administrators about leaving all morning, and Ted’s doctors are about to come in to work; he’ll be checking in with Julia, with Ted, seeing his own patients... he’s slammed and there isn’t much of anything that Eliot can take on for him. 

“Let me see if I can get Margo on board right away, and I’ll get packed up to bring most of my things to your place—if you’re sure that’s okay?” 

Quentin turns around from where he’s been putting the dishes in the sink and leans back with his hands against the edge of the counter. He’s wearing a blue oxford shirt, today, and brown slacks, and has his hair back. He’s so lovely, but he looks tired, and older than his years. He looks at Eliot softly. “Yes. That’s... that’s very okay. I’m, um, I’m not sure when I’m going to be done at work, today.”

Eliot can see that Quentin is anxious. He gets up and goes to him, puts his hands on his shoulders and draws him in, kisses his forehead. “Would you like me to pick you up from work in a car again? You can text me when you’re ready?” 

“Actually, I might want to walk, by myself. I’m not positive, I’m kind of processing some things. Can I just plan to meet you there? That way you can head over whenever you want?”

That sounds great, actually. Eliot is slightly stunned, for a moment, by Quentin’s trust. “Okay. Of course.” He holds onto him. “Is it alright if I cook?” 

Quentin actually _rolls his eyes._ At _Eliot._ He tucks his hair back, looking down, and chuckles.

“You’re spoiling me,” he mumbles.

Eliot reaches out and runs two fingertips along his jaw, gently tips Quentin’s face up and leans down to kiss him. “Let me,” he whispers, and Quentin kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him back.

Quentin returns to work having been kissed for, well, a _while,_ actually. Eliot also managed to rub his shoulders a little bit, and got him to laugh, and he counts Quentin having been in a good mood when he left the guesthouse as a personal victory. 

#

Margo is less than amused when Eliot interrupts her at work with his text that there has been a slight (huge) change of plans and he needs her help. But like the perfect goddess that she is, she finds time to Facetime him from her desk, with the staff banished and the office door locked. She leans back in her chair in her power suit, her hair pulled back tight, and listens as Eliot tells her about Ted’s fall, how everything went last night, and how he slept in Quentin’s bed and then “stole away before the dawn.” Margo rolls her eyes at him, of course. Eliot understands.

“So, he just brought me lunch, and he told me he has to leave Kampala.”

“Wait. Fucking _what?”_ Margo thinks for only half a second. “Damn of course. He’s going to go take care of Ted. Because Ted’s old as hell.” 

Thank god for Margo, always the sharpest knife in the drawer. Eliot paces across the small front room, phone in front of him. “Yes that’s... exactly. That’s always been his plan, to go back someday, and now that this happened he says it’s time. So, _Bambi,_ Quentin’s going to, um, _leave Kampala_ and _move back to Baltimore_ in a week.”

“Holy shit, El.”

 _“Right?”_

“Okay, so what’s your plan?”

Eliot drops dramatically onto the couch. “‘Call Bambi.’ _Obviously.”_

_“Eliot.”_

He sighs and shakes his head. “All right. Fine. All I know right now is that I’m moving in with him for the next week under the guise of ‘friend helping him get packed up.’ I want to take care of him through this. And I don’t actually want to stay here after he leaves—I can expedite the report and finish the details at home.”

Margo levels him with a piercing look. “I’m thinking you aren’t going to want to say goodbye to Quentin at the airport in Entebbe like some kind of polite fucking business associate.”

“Uh, no. No I don’t. I’m hoping we can arrange to fly out together.”

She takes a moment to answer, during which Eliot paces and wonders what she’s thinking, and how Quentin’s doing, and what he’s going to do.

“Eliot,” Margo finally asks. “How serious are you about Quentin? Do you know what you want?” 

“I’m completely in love with him,” Eliot tells her, without a bit of hesitation. “I want...” He scrubs his hand over his face. “I want to keep him. To have - something serious, and. And long-term. _Bambi,_ I don’t know what that _looks like,_ but I was...” He takes a deep breath, stalling. This part he hasn’t talked to Margo about yet, it’s something he decided on his own, “I was going to find a way to tell him. I was planning to do something romantic, and ask him for a relationship. But now he’s busy and preoccupied and worried about Ted.”

“Bring him to Geneva,” Margo says with commanding finality. “You can romance him here. Have a weekend where you two can bang as much as you want and be queer in public. Lots of gross PDA. Knock his little closeted socks off.”

That sounds like... a fucking _fantastic_ idea, actually. “Do you think so?”

“Fuck, yeah.” She sounds incredulous that he would even ask. “Think you can talk your boy into that? Henry’s having a party on Saturday night. He’ll want you to come if you’re back in town so he can brag about your work. You can bring Quentin.”

Ah, well. That prospect dampens the bright sunshine of Eliot’s hope slightly. Henry Fogg, their boss, has been a decent mentor to Eliot for years, but his soirees are dull, stuffy affairs. Maybe he can get out of it. “I don’t know if he’d be interested, but I could ask. Honestly, selling it as a relaxing, romantic weekend is probably my best bet.”

Margo plans to handle the travel arrangements as soon as Eliot gives her the nod, cancel the last week of the guesthouse rental, and while she’s at it, find the most reputable international shipping company operating in Kampala to pick up Quentin’s belongings and deliver them to his home in Baltimore. 

“Bambi,” Eliot tells her, “what would I ever do without you? Thank you.” 

Margo actually does enjoy being appreciated, but naturally she says, “Mhmm, don’t mention it. Take care of your little cutie pie, honey, and let me know what day you both want to fly back.”

“I do miss you, you know.”

“I know,” she says with a smirk, then softens a bit. “I miss you too, El. I’ll see you in a week. Text me later.” 

“Okay,” Eliot blows her a kiss as he signs off.

#

It was a very odd feeling, packing up his bags to take almost everything to Quentin’s. Eliot informed the hotel staff that he was keeping the room but would be frequently gone, _helping his friend get ready to move._ He told the Uber driver the same thing. Then he schlepped his suitcase, garment bag, and carry-on up the path, along with his basket full of foodstuffs from the kitchen, making two trips along the path and setting everything on the damp stoop. 

Now, Eliot is behind the house, looking for the loose tile in the patio Quentin built himself, the one that conceals his spare key. He finds it, his fingertips sliding along and lifting the rough edges of the earth-colored porcelain, off to the side and out of the way. The house key is cleverly set in a little divot in another tile, beneath the first one; it opens the back door, and Eliot pockets it as he lets himself into the kitchen.

He takes in the scent of the small room, coffee and a hint of sweet, warm cinnamon, and looks around. Daylight is coming in through the back window over the sink, and the squash and onions from the garden have been consolidated down to a single basket by the door. It feels larger than it did the first time he was here, like his presence has shaped the space to him. The closeness feels comfortable, now, and Eliot, who was never planning to live here in the first place, feels a deep stab of regret that Quentin will be giving up this little house. Thinking about the groceries and the state of his luggage, he makes himself leave off musing and reflecting and go get everything in off the front step. 

He’s not sure exactly what to do with his luggage, not wanting to presume, so he sets it in the bedroom beneath the front windows, puts his toiletry bag in the bathroom, pops one of Quentin’s hand-recorded classical cassettes into the stereo, and heads to the kitchen to get dinner started. It feels like a soup day. It’s chilly outside. Sad, worrisome things are happening in Quentin’s life. Eliot has been invited to stay with him, however, which is objectively wonderful. _Oh, what the hell._ He decides he can take a break from watching his figure. He’ll make soup and dumplings. 

Eliot doesn’t know how to create the African flavor profiles that Quentin frequently cooks with, but that’s okay. His culinary experience will serve him just fine here, making soup with what they have on hand. He raids the cupboards for ingredients, takes stock of everything in the basket and the fridge, and with a slight shudder he mentally vetoes the idea of heading out to the garden to try to dig up a potato or two. 

It isn’t long before the broth has taken shape: onions and a lot of garlic, softened in olive oil to deepen the flavors, with a can of crushed tomatoes and a couple of bouillon cubes, thyme and basil and bay. Chickpeas go in, and thin slices of collard greens that can cook for a long time... a carrot, and a turnip... and Eliot finds parmesan in the fridge, stirs a palmful into the broth, and another into the flour mixture for the dumplings, along with a bit of parsley, before he cuts in the butter. It takes half an hour to cook these: ten minutes floating on the simmering soup and another twenty steaming with the lid on, plenty of time to clean up. 

When Eliot takes the lid off, his soup is covered by a blanket of tender, fluffy country dumplings. It smells delicious, herbaceous and rich. Under the dumplings it’s extremely hot. Eliot moves the pot off the heat and pries a couple of the pillowy mounds apart to allow some steam to escape; the kitchen window is already fogged up. He leaves dinner to begin cooling and goes to tidy up his hair, then picks up one of Quentin’s books to peruse while he waits.

It’s nearly seven o’clock when Quentin comes home. He’s huddled in on himself, swathed in his wet raincoat and boots; he looks cold, and his cheeks are red. 

“Eliot, are you...” he calls out as he comes through the door, then “...oh, wow, that smells amazing.”

Eliot tries not to crowd him, but he can’t resist stepping in to help with his coat. Quentin turns around and looks up at him, a sheepish little smile on his face, like he’s happy but self-conscious about it. Eliot takes his cold hands and holds his fingers in his palms.

He attempts to keep his voice light, with a little grin. “Welcome home.” He watches Quentin look up at him, sway a little toward him and then stop, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to ask for comfort or affection, but wants it. “Okay, come here,” he says with a soft laugh, and reaches out to pull Quentin in against his chest. 

“I’m... Okay, yeah.” Whatever hesitation Quentin was holding onto, he seems to let it go as he tightens his arms around Eliot and sinks in against his chest. He very clearly needed a hug. Eliot holds him, solid weight tucked against him and Quentin’s chilly nose and warm breath against his neck. When he starts to relax, Eliot lets his shoulders go and stoops to kiss him, light and sweet. 

“Come on, let’s get you warmed up. You can tell me all about it. How’s Ted doing?”

Quentin starts taking off his boots. “Pretty well,” he says. “I got to talk to him a little while after he woke up. He’s still in some pain. And, um, being bed-bound is... pretty depressing? He’s doing his best to sound fine with it...” he huffs and shakes his head, “...but I know him better than that.”

“Will Julia be there today?” 

Quentin nods absently. He looks so worn out. “For a couple of hours. Fridays and Saturdays are performance nights.”

Eliot wraps an arm over Quentin’s shoulders as he stands, and leans in and kisses his head. “Would you like some soup?”

“God. Would I.” Quentin slides an arm around Eliot’s waist as Eliot leads him into the kitchen.

The dumplings seem to go over well. Quentin tucks into his soup, held in his lap with his legs crossed on the sofa and a blanket around his shoulders. He’s hungry, and Eliot just lets him eat for a little while, not expecting him to carry a conversation. The soup is warm and rich, and the dumplings are soft and filling. Eliot enjoys it, and Quentin offers him a small, grateful smile. 

“S’so good,” he says. Eliot reaches over to squeeze his knee, and lets him carry on.

“So um,” Quentin eventually says. “I went over to the TB wards, like usual on Fridays but later. Wanted to spend some time with the folks there before I go.”

“How did it go?”

“It was sad.” Quentin sets his spoon in his bowl and looks up at Eliot with pained, honest eyes, and Eliot feels a deep ache of empathy. He’s grateful to be let in, to witness such a personal process. “I’m going to miss them. Elijah’s kind of an actual friend, and I haven’t figured out how I can keep in touch with him.”

“I’m sorry, Q,” Eliot says quietly.

Quentin nods and shoots him a small, sad smile, then takes a spoonful of soup before he continues. “I’m worried that no one will be helping them, like I’ve been trying to. The program admin’s competent, but really clinical. I think I’m going to try to find someone on the staff willing to kind of, look out for their quality of life? It’s tricky, because everyone’s afraid of the disease.” 

“Can Dr. Mugisa help?”

“I don’t know. Should probably talk to her about it, though. We’re trying to figure out a bunch of things right now, with my work in the different departments. I expected to have more time.”

Eliot scoots over closer to Quentin and settles his arm around his shoulders. He wants to offer whatever comfort he can, but it’s also so good to be close to him, to feel him tucked, solid and warm, against his side. Quentin leans into his touch, so it seems like it was a good call.

“So,” he begins, softly. “No need to make decisions right now, but I did talk to Margo.” 

Quentin turns to look up at Eliot, listening, and something about how vulnerable he looks... the feeling of togetherness, of collectively facing all this, is so strong. Eliot reminds himself in this moment that they’re not technically a couple. He shouldn’t presume, but it’s a struggle—he feels for all the world like he’s taking care of _his person._ Eliot swallows and continues what he was trying to say. 

“She can get us on the same flights out of here, whenever you’re ready to go, we just have to tell her a date.” Quentin’s eyebrows raise in what looks like pleased but incredulous surprise as Eliot goes on. “She’s also having boxes delivered tomorrow afternoon, so we can pack up anything you’d like to keep but don’t want to carry, and she’ll have it all picked up and shipped to your house in Baltimore.”

“Seriously?” 

“Well, if you’re alright with that. I’m assuming we can arrange for Julia to be present to sign for the delivery.” 

Quentin looks down at his lap for a moment, seeming to just breathe. When he raises his head he offers Eliot a smile that looks relieved, if still a little sad. “Margo doesn’t mess around, does she?” he asks, quiet, and Eliot shakes his head in a silent _not even a little._ “This is all, um, extremely helpful,” Quentin continues. “Thank you.”

Eliot just smiles quietly and cuddles up next to him and eats his soup. It’s cold and wet and dark outside, and Eliot loves this man, and here they are, safe and warm in his home, for now anyway. For now, right here, he’s happy.

# 

The rest of the evening unfolds, slow like pouring honey, in gentle movements and with long periods of quiet. Quentin puts on a sweater, a shawl-collared cardigan in a deep, woody green, and he looks exactly as handsome in it as Eliot would have imagined (which is to say, very.) He makes some room for Eliot’s things in his closet and lower dresser drawers and urges him to unpack while he puts away the leftover soup and washes up. He’s on the phone back and forth with doctors again, pacing slowly around the front room and tugging absently at his hair. When they settle down to call Ted, however, Quentin wraps an arm around Eliot’s waist and holds on tight, like he wants to keep him from floating away. 

Ted is about as well as Eliot expected: a little groggy and not exactly thrilled to be where he is, but he seems to be doing his best to be graceful about it and to keep from worrying Quentin. He has on his own pajamas and robe now, as he sits against the raised end of his hospital bed. 

“Eliot. Good to see you again,” he says, his voice a bit scratchy, and Eliot smiles softly at him and says, “Likewise.” It’s unusual to be encountering Ted without the playfulness and layers of performance that Eliot has gotten used to. It feels strangely intimate to witness this less varnished, more personal side of him, in an unexpected way that tugs at Eliot’s heart.

Ted and Quentin are focused on each other as they discuss what the doctors have been doing and saying. They _are_ going to be doing that hip MRI, it turns out. Quentin is already thinking about physical therapy. He’s already thinking about the stairs in their house.

“Ted, I need to tell you something,” Quentin says in a gentle but surprisingly direct tone. Ted raises his eyebrows—almost exactly like Quentin’s—and looks at Quentin over the top of his glasses. “I’m going to come back to Baltimore after next week. To stay.”

Ted doesn’t respond right away, and Eliot looks down for a moment, to avoid staring at him. When he does speak, Eliot can hear the emotion behind the composure in his voice. “Quentin. Are you _sure?”_

“Yeah Ted.” Quentin’s voice is kind but definite. He reaches out with the hand not around Eliot’s back and touches the computer screen. Eliot feels like he’s trespassing upon a terribly private moment, but Quentin’s arm stays firmly in place as he continues. “I’m very sure.”

“Well.” Ted sounds like he’s doing his best not to choke up. “All right, then. I’ll be glad to have you back.”

“We’ll talk about specific plans later, okay? I have to wind up my practice, and Eliot’s helping me send some things home. We’ll probably still hire an aide, for a little while. I’ll let you know when I’m arriving when I figure it out.” Eliot can feel Quentin’s fingers pressing into his side. His voice is calm and reassuring, though.

“That sounds good,” Ted tells him. He has a soft smile on his face—Eliot could swear he’s seen the same smile on Quentin, grateful and knowing in an inscrutable sort of way. “I’m sorry, though, about your place.” 

“Thanks.” Quentin gives him a sad little grin. “It’ll be okay.” Ted only nods, and the two of them share a long look. Eliot feels like he’s intruding, but they don’t seem to mind his presence. He tries to at least give them a little space by glancing away.

“Eliot?” Ted’s voice startles him a bit, and when Eliot looks up there is none of the playful scrutiny or teasing that he’s used to. Ted looks tired, a bit worried, and his eyes look startlingly deep and sincere. “Are you doing all right? I’m sure none of this was part of the plan.”

Ted may be asking a polite question about how he’s doing, but Eliot realizes with a swoop of his stomach that this moment is probably, actually, a big deal. He’s reassuring Ted, but he’s also _reassuring Ted._ He sits forward a little and wraps his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, rubs his hand over his upper arm, settling himself as he feels the soft texture of his sweater.

“Yeah, Ted,” he says. He tries to somehow convey trustworthiness and, like, _devotion_ without actually saying as much. “I’m absolutely fine. Very glad to be here.”

Ted studies Eliot for a long moment, and Eliot tries to will him to understand, from the sincerity of his eyes or his arm around Quentin or the set of his mouth, that he _loves Quentin_ and is not about to just... jet on out of his life, for god’s sake. Ted raises his eyebrows at him, and Eliot continues to meet his gaze until Ted nods with an almost imperceptible, tight grin. He’s apparently satisfied for now, and turns to Quentin. 

“One thing I can say for sure from this hospital bed,” he says, “Quentin, I’m really looking forward to your cooking.”

They wrap up the call after a little bit, Quentin and Ted both assuring each other that they’re just fine and don’t need to be worried over. They’re so sweet, with their knowing looks and casual _“I love you’s.”_ Eliot feels a sort of warm, glowing affection for their relationship. It isn’t like anything else he’s ever seen—it’s like what he has with Margo but also so different. He feels he gets it now: of course Quentin wants to be there with Ted for however long he can. Of course he does.

The evening is different tonight, in Quentin’s little house, than it’s been over the last two weekends that Eliot’s spent here with him. Quentin’s sure to let him know that he’s still a guest, tries to make him comfortable and keep him from doing all the housework. None of it’s necessary, really—Eliot’s perfectly comfortable, ducking-under-archways notwithstanding, but he appreciates the thought. There’s little they can do to escape the subtle melancholy in the air from knowing that they’ll be dismantling Quentin’s life here over the coming week, that they’ll be leaving this place behind them, but he’s certainly willing to try.

Eliot makes tea, decaffeinated black with sugar and milk, and brings out large, steaming cups to sip while cuddled up together under the lap blanket on the sofa, where he’s asked Quentin to read to him. It is, evidently, a travesty that Eliot has never read any LeGuin, so Quentin begins with _A Wizard of Earthsea._ The soft music of his voice is almost hypnotic, but Eliot does try to pay attention to the story, which is obviously lovely. Not as lovely as Quentin’s warm, solid form cuddled into his side, knees up and leaning on his lap, holding the book but occasionally passing it to the hand that Eliot doesn’t have around his shoulders so he can reach for his tea... Eliot leans over and slowly breathes in the sweet, faint scent of Quentin’s hair, perfectly content.

They go to bed after a little while, taking turns with the bathroom sink, Eliot finally dressed in his silk paisley pajamas and Quentin, unsurprisingly, extremely cute in soft cotton flannel. Quentin turns off the light and the room falls into deep, quiet darkness as they curl together beneath the blankets in the center of the bed, drawn softly but inexorably, as always, into each other’s gravity.

Eliot does not expect anything erotic to happen tonight, only the comfort of holding each other, the safety of being in Quentin’s home, in his bed, together and protected from the weather and the world. Quentin curls against Eliot’s shoulder and nuzzles up beneath his jaw and along his cheek for a kiss, however, and his mouth is so soft, wet and lovely and _wonderful,_ that Eliot indulges and just kisses him... and kisses him... and goes on kissing him. 

Quentin’s weight is solid and settling where he’s leaned up half on top of Eliot. He’s warm, and his ribs and back feel fantastic through his pajamas, his hair silky between Eliot’s fingers. Being unable to see him draws Eliot’s focus to just _feeling_ him, and Eliot thinks he might kiss Quentin all night, if that’s what he wants; if they actually fall asleep kissing that will be just fine. 

“El...” Quentin eventually asks, breaking the kiss for just a moment and hooking his finger beneath the waistband of Eliot’s pajamas, moving it back and forth along his hip, “Can we?” 

“Oh, definitely, Baby,” Eliot tells him, delighted and extremely fond. “What would you like?”

“Just... this...” Quentin’s still kissing him, but he moves his hand to press over Eliot’s semi-hard dick through the silk of his pajamas—the pressure and intense warmth of his hand feel absolutely _fantastic—_ then apparently gets distracted by it and continues to rub his thumb around the head while Eliot briefly forgets how to breathe. “Just... something like this.”

They stay as they were, or almost, anyway, pressed up against each other under the covers in the dark, kissing a bit more urgently as they let themselves get worked up. Eliot thoroughly enjoys holding Quentin tightly to him and rolling them over and over, feeling the hard press of Quentin’s lovely cock through his cotton pajamas, taking his ass in his hands and grinding them together. The pajama bottoms are kicked off, eventually, and the buttons of their shirts undone, so their chests can touch, skin to skin—Quentin's hot skin and sharp nipples and soft, light furriness lighting Eliot up in the darkness. Eliot interrupts them just long enough to reach a long arm over in the dark to locate the lube in the desk drawer and pour a thin, slick stream between them.

It’s a thick, slow kind of pleasure, intensely private, kissing and moving over each other in the darkness, deep in the warm center of Quentin’s bed. His batik bedspread covers them, over the sheet and recently added second blanket, but its patterns are hidden in the almost complete dark, like a secret... like the secret of what they are, and what they’re becoming. Right now Eliot focuses on kissing Quentin deeply and moving against him, the heat of their bodies, the strength of their legs and brush of their skin. When he rolls on top of Quentin and pins him down, his weight resting on his forearms where their hands are entwined, Quentin gasps _“Eliot, yes...”_ and bucks up against him, and plunges his tongue deep into his mouth. 

It seems to go on and on and _on_ , as they take their time, drawing it out, immersed. Eliot is certainly in no hurry to stop enjoying the languorous, velvety slide of Quentin’s very warm body, kissing the perfect, soft bow of his lips... curling his tongue around the soft velvet of Quentin's, deep in his sweet, warm mouth... listening to his little gasps and the moans in the back of his throat... feeling his strong hands on his back... he could do this all night. Longer. Quentin does eventually begin to approach the edge, though— of course. He’s so fantastically sexy, as he bucks and strains up against Eliot, wrapping his legs around his thighs. Eliot does everything he can to give him what he needs, pressing against him urgently as he holds him tight to the bed. Quentin comes, hot and hard, between their stomachs, squeezing Eliot’s fingers almost painfully and gasping his name, and it’s so hot... it’s so phenomenally lovely and hot and _good_. 

Then, with Eliot still on top of him and kissing his lips and his jaw and his neck, before he even seems to catch his breath, Quentin gasps “oh god, _Eliot,_ ” and slides down into the bed and takes Eliot’s cock, now covered in his own come, deep into his mouth, like he needs this, too. 

Eliot startles at the shock of it, Quentin’s hot, wet mouth pulling him in deep as his strong arms keep his hips in place. He holds himself up on his elbows beneath the blankets, arching his back with the tension of keeping steady. It’s _so good._ He feels like he’s glowing, his skin lit up under Quentin’s touch and bright swells of pleasure radiating through his whole body from where Quentin is pressing and sliding the head of his cock back against the roof of his mouth. Quentin takes him in deeply, hungrily, and Eliot doesn’t do anything to hold himself back, now. He comes with a long, loud, startled groan, Quentin’s fingertips pressing into his hips as his body rolls with pleasure, pulsing down Quentin’s throat while Quentin moans, passionate and wild, deep in his chest.

They wrap themselves together, after that, still softly kissing, like Eliot suspected they might. Quentin holds Eliot tighter than usual, and Eliot wonders, as he feels him finally relax onto his shoulder, unable to stay awake any longer, if Quentin knows how he feels. He must, on some level... he has to know. Eliot’s heart... it’s never been like this, before. _He’s_ never been _like this,_ with anyone, before. 

Eliot needs to tell him, isn’t sure he can hold off for a week. He doesn’t make a decision just now, though, or any plan. Instead he settles into the peace of the present. Eliot gratefully holds Quentin, whom he loves, soft against his body in the center of his warm bed in the comforting darkness, and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple more pieces from my writing soundtrack that have wound their way into the story in my mind: ["I Giorni"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otrUfK-bj-o) always makes me think of Eliot, ["Berlin Song"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eXiw-oN8dZU) is Ted's theme, and ["Fairytale"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3n1TklARe8U) is for the house on Mulago Hill. 
> 
> I haven't included it here yet, because I'm not super-duper sure that it's okay to use an actor's actual publicity photo in story art on ao3, but [here](https://allegria23.tumblr.com/post/636242373888851968/chapter-16-of-take-the-red-road-home-is-now-up) is another beautiful photo edit by the marvelous [kickassfu,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickassfu) this one for Eliot.
> 
> Thank you, lovely readers. This chapter marks the two-thirds point of the story, and I'm so grateful for every one of you.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very excited to share another wonderful photo collage by [kickassfu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickassfu). This one is for Quentin and Ted, for their life in Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New York, and I love it _soooo_ much.

* * *

Quentin could do this alone. He’s done it before, several times—packed up his life after spending a year or two working in Africa, and gone home to Ted. This has been the longest stretch, though. And here in Kampala this time, with his unorthodox arrangement with the hospital and his little hidden house and garden, Quentin has felt like... well, if not exactly rooted, at least happy. At least like it was working, he was enjoying his life, and the people in his life. Like he was doing good work. And if he was a little lonely... well. There was always the feeling that it was only temporary, wasn’t there? That he could handle a little solitude, could possibly enjoy it, even, for a few years? 

And now here he is, and it’s suddenly time to go, and... he’s right, he _could_ do this alone. But it’s a relief—he feels a little guilty about how much of a relief it is, actually—that he doesn’t have to. 

_Eliot..._ ... Good god, Quentin loves him. It’s so easy. Effortless. After all that worry, Quentin just loves him. And... he wants to be careful not to take advantage of him. This sweet, caring, wonderful man, who’s moved up here to help and be with him while he sorts out the remnants of his life in Kampala. Eliot seems to enjoy taking care of him, which is _soooo_ nice, but Quentin is trying to keep things at least a little balanced. And yeah, this is something he likes to do, so... breakfast. He’s making breakfast. 

The coffee finishes brewing and the pot sputters and steams just before Eliot walks into the kitchen after his shower, this time in more than just a towel—which is a shame, actually, but seeing him in his own bathrobe gives Quentin a different kind of warm feeling, fond and a little possessive. Eliot’s curls are damp but he’s clearly arranged them with his fingers, artfully pushed back and just framing the sides of his forehead, and his eyes are beautiful and clear and golden this morning, and he smells wonderful. Quentin doesn’t even know—he’s set down his wooden spoon to duck under Eliot’s arm, his hand on top of the fridge where he’s getting the milk—he doesn’t even know, what it is that smells so good, subtly spicy in a masculine way that isn’t, like, aggressive, that just suits Eliot so well, but...

“Oh, hello...” Eliot murmurs as he gets on board and pulls Quentin, his nose trailing along his neck, up into a kiss. 

“Mmm,” Quentin kind of replies, kissing him. Eliot’s lips are just soft and warm and delicious, and... okay, yeah wow, his hand smoothing up Quentin’s back to settle at the back of his neck... _damn_ that does it, every time. Quentin is just... a puddle. Of a man. Being kissed. In the kitchen, with the refrigerator door open, and... _oh, god..._

“M’morning... again,” he finally says, breathless, when Eliot releases him with a soft, fond smirk. Maybe he should be embarrassed, a little, about how Eliot has the power to just _do that_ to him, but Eliot _really_ doesn’t seem to mind, so...

“Hello handsome,” Eliot says, and kisses him on the forehead before letting him go and reaching for a coffee cup. “What are you making?”

“Oh! Shit, um.” Quentin snatches the skillet and lifts it up off the heat. “It’s a scramble, just needed to get these vegetables soft before adding the eggs but - okay. I think it’s okay.” They don’t seem burnt, some of the peppers and onions are a bit brown, maybe. 

“Well it smells divine,” Eliot says. Quentin lowers the heat and sets the skillet down, and Eliot hands him a cup of coffee. He takes a long sip. Perfect—creamy and hot. Eliot’s arms come around him from behind and Quentin relaxes back against him. 

“Thanks,” he smiles softly over his cup. Damn, this is so nice. “Would you like the eggs spicy, or not spicy?” 

“Oh, spicy. Definitely. And I brought some mango juice, I’ll get the ice.”

He’s... yeah. He's perfect.

The timing isn’t quite right with the eggs and their state of undress to eat on the stoop, plus it’s a little chilly and wet, so they have breakfast on the sofa. Quentin curls up half-sideways with his bowl, and hooks one of his calves over Eliot’s. It feels good to be touching him, just, generally.

“Do you need to work on your report?” he asks. “I have to go through my things and decide what to pack, and I have, um, a bunch of stuff to handle?” 

Eliot’s enjoying his spicy eggs, which is nice to watch. The way his cheeks broaden and lift in almost a little smile when he really likes something, and how his shoulders relax and he lets himself sink a little deeper into the sofa... he’s so lovely, and Quentin’s so in love. He wants to catalogue all of the beautiful little things about Eliot, commit them to memory. He makes himself focus as Eliot finishes his bite and answers. “I certainly could. But I really am happy to help. Just say the word if you need me?”

“Okay,” Quentin says, and reaches out to squeeze his hand. “Thanks.”

The boxes Margo ordered arrive a little later, as Eliot is setting up in the kitchen nook: four flats of folded packing boxes in different sizes. Quentin takes a moment to marvel at the efficiency of it all. The company will pick up his things and retrieve the unused boxes, special items can be catalogued, and everything will be insured. Is this what it’s like, having Margo in one’s life? This seems to be part of it, anyway. Quentin is very grateful for this, even though he doesn’t have _nearly_ this many things to take home. 

He has two suitcases in the bottom of his coat closet, so while Quentin waits for the time of day when Ted is likely to be awake he pre-packs, fitting some of his shoes and most of his warm clothes in them, open on the bed. There are just a couple of special things that need to go in his carry-on. He retrieves _Leaves of Grass_ from the bookshelf, and takes the framed photo of Arielle from his top dresser drawer. 

Quentin sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed, to look at her. She’d been so young, when this was taken, right before the war—everyone had sweetheart portraits made then, but she hadn’t had a sweetheart until the war was nearly over. She gave it to him after they were already engaged. It's faded sepia, showing Arielle posed with a flower in her hair, in a white dress. She looks like she has a secret, and is holding back a laugh. It pulls hard at Quentin’s heart, even now. He’s always felt a bit protective of this girl version of Arielle in the photo, even though she certainly hadn’t needed it. When they met she was a very self-possessed woman who had been turning away suitors since she was sixteen. How he ever got so lucky... he still doesn’t know. 

He still misses her. Not a constant ache, like it once was, but more of a longing that recedes and surfaces, again and again. He imagines it will probably always be that way, sometimes missing her laugh, her kind, warm presence, her arm wrapped around his, holding his hand tight. Her jokes. 

How would she feel, he wonders, about him falling in love again? He’s sort of... avoided it, for so long. Partly out of a sense of, almost, nostalgic faithfulness? But he’s known for a while, actually, that he wasn’t honoring her memory anymore, by keeping himself apart. He doesn’t _really_ have to ask what she would think. Quentin knew his wife. Deep down, he knows that she would _want_ him to love, and to be loved. He just... he wasn’t ready, before. He’s not one hundred percent sure that he’s ready now.

As if on cue, a light rapping on the bedroom door startles Quentin from his reverie. 

“Am I interrupting?” Eliot asks softly, from the doorway. “I can come back.”

“No, um,” Quentin swallows, but the lump is still in his throat, “No it’s. It’s good timing, actually. Come on over.”

Eliot slips quietly into the bedroom and sits beside him on the bed, settling a hand on his shoulder. “What’s this?”

“This was Arielle,” Quentin holds the frame out, so Eliot can see, “when she was about twenty. I don’t keep the picture out all the time, anymore, but I’m packing, so...”

The fingers of Eliot’s left hand gently brush the edge of the frame. “She was beautiful.”

Quentin nods. “Yeah.”

“Beautifully done antiquing on the photo too— sorry, not to distract, but these are usually cluttered with props and bad costuming. I can appreciate the care that went into making this, it’s lovely.”

Hoo, this was... not the time Quentin was planning to come out as supernaturally cursed, but maybe this is the moment? But... but Quentin’s barely realized he’s in love, and he hasn’t—he hasn’t worked up to this, yet, doesn’t have a plan. If Eliot got upset and then he never got to tell him that he loves him... which, this is _definitely_ not the time for _that..._ Quentin holds the portrait, a bit overwhelmed, and Eliot’s arm wraps around him and gently rubs his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Q.” 

There’s so much sincerity and compassion in his soft, light voice. Quentin lets out the breath he was holding. He tries to pull it together.

“Thank you. I just need to, um, make sure this goes in my carry on. With _Leaves of Grass."_

Eliot hums thoughtfully and hugs Quentin to his side, then kisses his head. 

“Here, let me, um...” Quentin stands and turns around to settle the frame carefully into this carry-on suitcase. “I’m trying to pack for flying, so I’ll know what I have left, to put in boxes? It’s um.” Quentin pauses, at a loss for words. The magnitude of what he’s facing feels like it’s descending on him, dark and heavy. He’ll be leaving Kampala, his whole life here. And he’ll also be saying goodbye to Eliot. For how long? For a short while? Forever? Quentin can’t just continue to pretend this is fine. His sense of impending loss is layering in his mind, like filters over the old photographs of his many, many previous losses. Unexpectedly, against his will, Quentin feels his eyes filling with tears.

“Quentin?” Eliot, still on the edge of the bed, reaches to cup his shoulder again. “Sweetheart, what’s going on?”

“Sorry. It’s um. Just. Losing so much, all at once.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you have to leave Kampala.”

“And you, though,” Quentin says, embarrassed and trying to surreptitiously wipe his tears away with the back of his hand, “at the same time? I’m. Damn. I don’t know how I’m going to do it.”

“Hey, hey. You’re not losing me,” Eliot says. He stands up and pulls Quentin in against his chest, taking a deep breath. “We’ll figure something out, sweetheart. I... I don’t have to be in Geneva forever.”

Is he? Is Eliot saying... oh god, _really?_ Hope begins to bloom, hiccupping and fizzy, in Quentin’s chest. He leans back to look up at Eliot. 

“Are you saying, you want to, um. Still see each other? After Kampala?”

“Of course I do. Do you?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, overwhelmed and leaning in to hug him again, his face against Eliot’s neck, feeling the warmth of his body, noticing the subtle remaining scent of his cologne. “Yes, I um, I really do.” 

He feels Eliot let out a long, shaky breath. “Okay. Okay, good.” They just hold on to each other for a moment, quietly—Quentin feels like he’s clinging to Eliot, holding on to this new understanding between them, lest it float away. Finally, something seems to settle in Eliot’s energy. He relaxes his shoulders and kisses Quentin's hair again. 

“I’m not sure when I can get back to DC,” Eliot says, his voice gentle, like they’re sharing a secret. “It was supposed to be after the new year, but I might be able to change that. But, as for having to say goodbye at the airport in Amsterdam...” he leans back to look at Quentin, holding his shoulders, “that was actually part of why I came in here. Margo texted me about the flights. I thought this might not be quite the time, but as usual, Bambi knows best.”

Eliot releases Quentin from his hold, and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Here,” he says, sliding back to the middle of the bed, where he starts taking off his oxfords. “Come sit up here with me.” 

Quentin does. He pushes his suitcases back toward the headboard and climbs up to sit facing Eliot, leaning on his arm in the middle of the bed. Eliot touches Quentin’s cheek, and looks in his eyes. 

“I was going to try to find a particularly romantic moment to ask you,” he says with a small smile, and looks down at the bed. He’s so lovely, with his long eyelashes fanning across the tops of his cheeks. Is Eliot _nervous?_

He reaches out to take Quentin's hand and entwines their fingers, settled on the patterned bedspread. “Quentin,” he asks, “would you come to Geneva with me for a few days, before you go back to Baltimore? We could have a weekend together there, enjoy the waterfront, be safe and out in public in a beautiful city.” 

Quentin swallows. He must be staring—Eliot’s serious. “I would - okay... _Eliot._ That would be amazing.” Eliot looks at him with a hopeful little smile, and it’s... god, he’s beautiful. This is all so unlikely, how is it even happening? “I’ll have to make sure, um, that everything’s set up for Ted.”

“But this is a yes?”

“This is a yes.” 

“Oh, thank god.” Eliot reaches for Quentin and pulls him in against his chest, wrapped in his long arms, and holds him tight for a long moment. Finally, he releases him and tips Quentin’s chin up and kisses him tenderly. It’s so sweet, and Quentin feels such relief, he’s nearly giddy. 

When Eliot pulls back from the kiss, he brushes his nose softly against Quentin’s. “I’m going to get us the most fabulous dinner reservations. Just you wait.”

Quentin laughs quietly at himself. The emotional rollercoaster that he’s on, good heavens. 

“I should probably, um, reconsider my packing strategy. I don’t suppose you’d want to help?”

“Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot smiles, his head leaned lightly against Quentin’s, “are you asking me to help you pick out clothes for a romantic weekend in a European city?” 

Quentin laughs, helpless with love. “Yes, I am. It’s like I know you?”

Eliot kisses him again, longer and sweeter. “You obviously do.”

It’s nice, actually, watching Eliot go carefully through his clothes. Quentin stretches out on his back on the bed and just enjoys it. He’s terribly charmed to learn that Eliot is particularly fond of his brown suit, which he was wearing on the night when he first kissed him, under the stars. He appreciates Quentin’s “vintage” mother of pearl cufflinks, too, and spends a lot of time examining his shirts, feeling the fabric with his fingertips. The thought of having Eliot’s artistic eye turned on him makes Quentin feel warm in a not-altogether-chaste way. He’s still feeling a mixed-up blend of love and grief and worry and excitement and nervousness, so, he guesses... might as well add a slightly embarrassing new turn-on to the mix?

Quentin closes his eyes, fairly sure he’s blushing, and before he knows it something in him has decided he needs a break, and he’s fallen asleep.

_In his dream, Quentin dances with Arielle, in the newly rebuilt dance hall in the town square in Lille, a few miles from their home. The lights of the hall seem to gleam softly on her shoulders, on her shimmery seafoam-green evening dress. Quentin chose it on a recent trip to Paris, to compliment her red hair and fair skin—she’s beautiful, and it suits her. He takes her hand and spins her, to show off the swing of the skirt—it has a dropped waist and open tiers, in the new, modern style—and Arielle laughs and spins him back. She isn’t one to be easily led, which suits Quentin very well. The other dancers in the hall are only shadows, little brushes of cloth and glints of silver and murmurs, but Arielle’s eyes are on him. He feels the warmth of her skin through the silk across her back... “Come on, dance, my love,” she says, laughing. “Let’s show them all how it’s done.”_

_They do. The lights of the hall circle around them, golden-white and blurring, as Arielle shimmies and swings and spins, a beautiful flush to her cheeks. Quentin feels like the luckiest man in all of France, possibly in all the world._

His dream is fading softly when Quentin feels fingers slip into his. Eliot’s hand is warm in his while Arielle’s laughter echoes softly in his mind, and Quentin’s heart feels... so full. It’s been shaped by the contours of his life with her, what loving someone can feel like, for him, but now there’s this new love there, too. It feels like... like there’s room there, for Eliot. Like he fits into the spaces. Like Arielle would appreciate what’s happening to him, now, what he’s somehow managed to open up to.

Quentin curls his fingers between Eliot’s. “C’mere,” he says, slurred with sleep, and gives a gentle tug, with a turn of his shoulders, like leading a partner in a dance. He feels Eliot slide in behind him on the bed, curl around him and nuzzle against his hair at the back of his head.

“Bossy,” Eliot teases. Quentin can hear him smiling.

“Mmm,” Quentin agrees. “So bossy.” He snuggles back against Eliot and holds his arm tight around his middle, just right. 

#

So it seems that heightened, wildly fluctuating emotions are just going to be the norm for Quentin, for a while at least. He tries to be gentle with himself about it, to offer himself a little grace about how _much_ everything is, right now. Eliot seems to be handling it fairly well, bless him. To be so genuinely cared for, while all of this is going on... it’s baffling, and Quentin hasn’t had the time or mental space to really sort it all out yet, how lucky he feels, and how startled to find himself in love, what this could mean... but, he reminds himself to breathe and try to focus, at least a little, on the present. He isn’t alone, right now. He can lean a little. He’s very grateful for the comfort of that.

Eliot held him for a little while, earlier, as he woke from his cat nap, and then they finished the pre-packing process, with a suitcase designated specifically for Geneva. He’s not going to live out of his luggage for the next week, but this will definitely help with the organization of it all.

Now, Eliot is making lunch in the kitchen, and starting a loaf of bread. Quentin has been on the phone with the nurse’s station already. He got an overnight update, and thinks he’s managed to get on the good side of the daytime charge nurse, leaving a note for Ted to call him this morning when he’s ready. He reviews the emails from Ted’s doctors, and the test results that don’t tell them a whole heck of a lot. 

“Q?”

Quentin turns from where he’s seated, computer on his knees on the sofa, to see Eliot leaning sideways through the kitchen arch. He raises his eyebrows at him, “Hmm?”

“I’m about to knead the dough, in case you wanted to... come consult? On the herbs I’m thinking of adding, of course.” Eliot grins playfully at Quentin before disappearing back into the kitchen. Quentin smiles and rolls his eyes at himself as he unfolds and grabs the notebook to take it with him. Of course he’s not going to miss this.

He slides into the bench seat as Eliot’s flouring the countertop. He’s got his white baker’s apron tied around his slender waist, the sleeves of his silvery grey shirt rolled up past his elbows this morning, tweedy brown trousers that somehow look casual and fantastic at the same time and... balance his look with the deep brown of his soft curls? Quentin doesn’t know how Eliot does it. He’s beautiful, but he’s also just... a whole aesthetic, really. Gorgeous and grinning as he turns the dough onto the counter and begins to work it in the flour.

“I brought the tablet, in case Ted calls,” Quentin tells him. “I need to talk to him alone, so I’ll take him in the bedroom if he does. But um...” He ducks his head, a little embarrassed at how much he wants to just ogle Eliot’s forearms and hands, and smiles. “Hopefully it’ll be a few minutes.”

“Mmmm,” Eliot hums, still looking very amused. “How do you feel about rosemary?” His eyes flash at Quentin and he looks wonderfully fond, and Quentin’s stomach swoops. 

“Um,” he tries to get his brain to catch up to the question, “I’m not a big fan?”

“Thyme? I could do a blend, light on the rosemary? It’s to go with poultry, mainly.” 

“Yeah, um. That sounds great.”

Quentin decides to get the kettle started for tea, rather than just stare. Eliot’s _hands,_ though. _Good god._ And the dark hair on his forearms, the definition of his muscles, flexing and sliding smoothly beneath his skin as he turns and presses the dough... even the movement of his back and shoulders beneath his shirt as he works is appealing, so elegant... Eliot is making bread, and Quentin is getting turned on watching him, blushing over his tea mug. It occurs to him that if Eliot didn’t want the attention, he wouldn’t have invited him into the kitchen. Still, he’s feeling sheepish and a little bit ridiculous. He was more, he guesses, _brazen,_ about this, the last time. But since then Eliot has _done things_ to him with those hands, and suggested other things that he wanted to do with them...

He’s about to try to make conversation, to distract himself from his self-consciousness and this particular line of thought, when Ted calls on the tablet. Quentin nearly jumps, and fumbles to set down his mug. He picks up the notebook to take the call.

“Ted!” he says, as the image on the screen resolves. “Um, good morning!”

“Oh, am I interrupting something?” Ted is already grinning at him, amused, one wild eyebrow arching over the frame of his glasses. Quentin, through his embarrassment, is fantastically relieved to see him.

Eliot actually laughs, from across the kitchen. The traitor.

“Oh, uh, _no._ Eliot’s just, making bread. See?” He turns the tablet so Ted can see Eliot, standing there in his apron with the dough. 

Eliot flashes them both an absolutely _beautiful_ smile. “Good morning, Ted,” he says. “How’re you feeling?”

“Bit tired and cranky, but I’m pulling through. Nice to see you, Eliot.”

Eliot nods at him. “Likewise,” he smiles, and looks up at Quentin. 

Quentin shoots Eliot a grateful look and turns the tablet back around to get a good look at Ted. He has his robe on over a pajama shirt, sitting up in his hospital bed, and his hair has been combed. He _looks_ okay, but he sounds tired. “How are you sleeping?”

“Well now,” Ted says lightly, like he doesn’t want to complain, “that could be better, I’ll admit.” 

“Would you feel okay about trying a light sleep aid? Just temporarily?” 

“That might be all right.” His voice is so soft, and Quentin wishes so much that he could be there to take care of him. 

“I’ll talk to your doctor about it. Here, let me... I’m going to take this in the bedroom, okay?”

Ted nods and Quentin gets up and heads over to Eliot, sets a hand on his lower back, feels the warmth of his skin through the smooth cloth of his shirt. “Thanks,” he says, quietly. 

Eliot curves an arm around Quentin’s shoulders and pulls him in for a side hug, and kisses his temple. “Of course. Have a good talk. Lunch will keep.”

A minute later, Quentin sits down at his writing desk, with the bedroom door closed, to talk to Ted. Being bedridden isn’t an easy thing, and he’s hoping Ted will be able to open up about how he’s really feeling. Ted brushes his questions off after a couple of minutes, however, and Quentin lets it go. Maybe he is fussing over him a bit too much. He does have to put up with people doing that all day, after all.

“So,” Ted says, no-nonsense and without any preamble, “what’s going on with you and Eliot?” 

Quentin feels a little guilty for holding back such big personal news, but they haven’t had the privacy to talk about it, until now. Ted knows Eliot’s staying with him, but he doesn’t really _know._ He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and looks him in the eye.

“Ted, I’m... um.” Now that it’s time to say it out loud, Quentin feels the weight of this, of how long it’s been since he’s felt like this. “I’m in love with him.”

A big grin slowly spreads across Ted’s face, deepening the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He says, gently. “Genuinely, actually in love?”

Quentin has to smile a little, feeling honestly slightly giddy. “Yes. Genuinely.”

“Well, hot damn.” Ted rubs his hand over the top of his blanket and grins. When he speaks his voice sounds a little rough, cracked. “Pops, that’s... that’s fantastic. I knew it. I knew you could do it.” He pauses, lowers his voice. “Took you long enough, though.” 

“What, to fall in love?” Quentin looks around, absurdly, keeping his voice down. “Ted, I’ve known him for three weeks!”

“I’m not talking about the three weeks,” Ted says, taking off his glasses and wiping the corners of his eyes. “I’m talking about the forty years.”

Oh, well, that’s... _God._

“You know I never stopped loving your grandmother, right?” It’s not like Quentin’s heart has been... unoccupied, all this time.

“I know, Pops,” Ted says, patiently. “But that’s different. Obviously.”

“Yeah,” Quentin concedes, soft and with a lump in his throat. “Yeah, it is.”

Ted gives him a moment. “Have you told him?” he finally asks.

“No.” Quentin sighs. “I mean, it’s only been a couple days. And I’ve been in, you know... crisis mode. And I’m not sure how to...” He takes a breath, a pause, and raises his hand to push back his hair from his face. “I was packing this morning, and I showed Eliot Arielle’s picture. He was just - lovely about it, and...”

Quentin feels at wits’ end, a gentle kind of desperation to explain. 

“I almost told him, Ted. About my past. But I got scared, and the moment was gone.”

Ted looks at him with so much compassion, then says, “I’m glad you’re going to tell him. But I’m not gonna soften this up for you. You should tell him you love him first.”

“But is that...” Quentin sputters, stalls. “I mean. Is that fair? Shouldn’t he be able to know what he’s getting into?” 

“Look,” Ted says, fixing Quentin with a steady, pointed gaze. “Life is rarely easy. Eliot already has feelings for you, because you’re _you_. I would think that he might appreciate knowing that you share those feelings, when he considers your whole supernatural situation, don’t you? He’s not answering a personal ad; he’s learning something important about the man he loves.” He takes a beat, to let that sink in.

“Or at least so it appears.” Ted’s eyes crinkle wryly. “You two should really clear that up.”

Quentin has to laugh quietly at that, letting some of the tension go. He meets Ted’s eyes, a darker brown than his own, surrounded by fragile skin and many deep laugh lines. He _did_ soften it up for him, like he always has. 

“And then,” Ted continues, kindly, “if it turns out that it’s too much for him—which i _don’t_ think it will be, but if it is—well, you’re in love, and you’ll have been able to say it. At least you’ll both have an honest resolution, rather than one full of secrets. Right?”

Okay. That actually. That makes sense.

Quentin slowly nods, getting on board with Ted’s reasoning. But something inside him is still holding him back, telling him to protect both of them, to keep his secret from hurting them. 

“If he learns what I am, what my life is, and he doesn’t want that... doesn’t want _me...”_

“Well, you’ll have my shoulder to cry on. We’ll get you through it together, if you have to let him go. But, Pops. You _have to_ take a chance.”

He will. He wants to. But Quentin has only known he’s in love for two days. Two overwhelming, intense days. And the whole time, Eliot’s been, just, amazing. But Quentin doesn’t feel... steady. Within himself, right now. “I’m gonna tell him, Ted. But I’m not quite ready.”

“Well, take your time. But not too much time, okay? He’s there, isn’t he?”

Quentin nods, trying to get his emotional feet under him, so to speak. “Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

“That’s because he wants to be.” Ted has his hand on the side of his screen, like he’s trying to reach out for Quentin through it, to get through to him. “Trust me on that, Pops. He _wants_ time with you. You two should make the most of it.”

Quentin swallows. “Actually, um. This morning, Eliot asked me to spend next weekend in Geneva with him, on my way home. A romantic weekend.”

“Well well...” Ted grins at him, delighted. “You better have said yes?”

“I did.”

“Good” Ted says. “You go canoodle somewhere safe. Be in love. Openly, I mean. You deserve that.”

“Thanks, Ted.” He grins back, appreciating Ted’s enthusiasm, but he also has bigger news to share. “He uh, he also said he wants to still see me, after um. After I come home.”

“As if there was any doubt, Pops.”

“Well I didn’t...I wasn’t sure.”

Ted just looks at him, shaking his head, like Quentin is so dense but he loves him anyway.

“Also, I mean, he could change his mind. After I tell him about my, um. My life.”

Ted’s lips form a thin line as he nods and looks down at the blankets on his lap, like he’s conceding the possibility. “I wish I could make that easier for you.”

“Thank you. I um... I suppose I might need backup, in case he doesn’t believe me? You know I haven’t done this before.”

“I’m at your service.” Ted smiles gently at him and sweeps his hand in a little parody of a bow. 

They just sit there softly together, for a minute or so, letting the silence bookend the conversation they just had, as everything they’ve arrived at settles between them. Quentin wishes he could touch him, but otherwise... otherwise, this is good.

Finally, he tries to pull himself together and switch gears. “So, um. I’m starting to get packed up here. It’s going to be really tricky, figuring out how to plan some of my patients’ care. The hospital can’t just replace me, just like that.”

Ted smiles at him, extremely fondly. “I’m sure they can’t replace you at all.”

“Okay,” Quentin sniffs and wipes his eyes. “Who gave you permission to be so sweet? Stop it.”

Ted laughs at him, hearty and rich. Quentin loves and appreciates him so much. There he sits, nearly eighty years old and in a hospital bed with a fractured hip, graciously trying to buoy Quentin up and help him with his love life.

They have a small discussion about whether Quentin is going to keep his house—Ted thinks he might as well, even though Quentin doesn’t think he’ll be back, maybe ever—and then touch on nursing care plans, and Julia coming by on her lunch break, and how she got permission to set up an audio stream of tonight’s performance for Ted. Quentin will be talking to the doctor about how Ted’s doing, and the MRI, and they’ll talk again tonight.

“All right,” Ted finally cuts off his renewed fussing. “Go on, go have lunch with your fella. I’m not going anywhere, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay, okay,” Quentin agrees, somewhat reluctantly. “If you’re sure you’re alright.”

“I’m sure. Go on. I love you and I’ll be fine.”

Quentin smiles gently at him. “I love you too. See you later.”

#

They have lunch out on the front stoop, with the sun occasionally coming out from behind tall, bright clouds. Eliot made warm sandwiches with roasted vegetables and melted cheese—so good, and something Quentin wouldn’t have thought to do. He feels so sweetly looked-after; he lets himself just enjoy it, and Eliot’s easy presence, there beside him on the front step. 

“Do you think we could...” he begins as they’re bringing their dishes in, “I don’t know what’s going on with the bread, but could we cuddle on the couch, for a bit?” 

Eliot puts an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, _absolutely.”_

They end up doing this thing... all right, Quentin isn’t going to pretend he doesn’t love it. Eliot makes a marvelous pillow, and the way he fits on the sofa, with his head and shoulders and feet propped on the armrests, Quentin can curl up mostly on top of him, feel him breathing, listen to his heart. It’s so nice. They did this before, the first time Eliot came here, but now it feels different. Eliot’s big, warm hands wrap around Quentin’s ribs, his arms firm over his back, and he just pulls him in. 

_I love you,_ Quentin thinks. He needs to be looking at him, when he says it, he knows. It feels good, though... the thought of allowing the words to escape from his lips, his own voice carrying them, with whatever magic they have, to Eliot. Quentin relaxes deeply on Eliot’s chest, an arm around him and his hand tucked, snug, between his back and the sofa.

“Are you going to fall asleep on me?” Eliot asks. His voice is soft and amused. “I’m sensing this may be a many-nap day.”

“I might,” Quentin tells him, but he turns and stretches up to kiss him instead. Eliot’s kisses are sweet, gentle. His soft lips, and the feel of his breath against Quentin’s cheek... Quentin gets caught up in it, for a little while, before settling back down on his shoulder to rest. 

A little later, Eliot takes an Uber to the market. Quentin talks to Ted’s doctor, begins researching the list of private nursing providers that Julia gave him, and contacts Ted’s insurer about what may be covered. He has so many things he needs to think about, to settle his affairs in Kampala and keep on top of Ted’s care. He begins writing a “Kampala” checklist, then takes a break and packs a box full of dry-season clothes that will be summer clothes when he’s back in Baltimore.

When Eliot comes back he brings flowers again, a bouquet of mixed calla lilies, in shades of white, plum, and rose. They’re beautiful. Kissing him goodbye, and then hello again, are delightful high points in the afternoon. He’s so charming, and so lovely, and Quentin indulges for a minute or two in a fantasy of getting used to this. He doesn’t let himself actively hope, that would be far too much, but the fantasy is nice: coming home to Eliot, having Eliot come home to him, flowers on the mantle, making dinner together, Ted in his study, music in the house...

“What’s this faraway look?” Eliot asks quietly, his arms wrapping around Quentin from behind as he stands over the packing box, newly sealed up on the bed.

Quentin puts his forearms over Eliot’s, across his stomach, and squeezes tight, “I like this. Having you here. Being... like this.” Quentin blinks, afraid that he may have made things awkward with that admission, but he can’t quite take it back now. “It’s just, um. Thanks. For being here.”

Eliot is quiet for a moment, then he tightens his arms around Quentin a little more and murmurs, “I like it too, sweetheart.” 

As the evening settles in, Quentin finds that, even with Eliot here and the planning going well, he’s beginning to feel a familiar heaviness, lethargic, his muscles weighed down with fatigue. Things are happening that would ordinarily make him happy and excited—the beautiful dinner that Eliot’s making for them, the fact of his presence, even the anticipation of the trip to Geneva, a week away—but those emotions feel just out of reach. He can’t quite touch them. 

Quentin knows very well what this is, and that it shouldn’t come as a surprise. He’d been hoping to get through this move without any depression—he’s been doing well, lately—but even with his medication, and even with Eliot here, it seems that may have been a bit too much to ask. 

He stands over the bathroom sink, before dinner, and washes his hands and face. He ties back his hair, just to have a sense of taking care of himself, of making some effort. He runs his fingertips over his chin and jaw, feels the light brush of the beginnings of stubble from his shave this morning, focuses on the familiar scraping sound of his fingernails against it. The eyes looking back at him in the mirror look sad and frustrated, tired, and feel far away. He leans both hands on the sink and takes a deep breath, then lets it out. If Quentin can just keep himself going, doing things, even one at a time... time will continue to pass, and he’ll continue along with it, and he’ll get through this.

It’s raining outside again, and Eliot’s made a very nice dinner—one that kind of seems to need a table. They pull the coffee table into the middle of the room, and Eliot drapes it with his batik tablecloth from Owino Market and sets it for them with a roasted chicken and vegetables and fresh, beautifully braided bread. He even lights a candle. It’s absolutely lovely, and Quentin takes in the rich, wonderful smells and, even through the haze, he appreciates it so much. 

“This is beautiful,” Quentin tells him, “Thank you.”

Eliot smiles a little, in acknowledgement, and settles himself gracefully on the rug across from Quentin. He’s put away his apron, and even though he’s casually dressed (for him,) this reminds Quentin of their first date, when Eliot made him a special dinner and they used this tablecloth for the first time. 

“Would you like some wine?” Eliot asks.

“Could I have, um, just a taste? I don’t think I should actually drink.” 

Eliot pours Quentin a finger of burgundy, and a bit more for himself, and looks at him curiously. “Like that?” Quentin nods, grateful, and Eliot gently sets the bottle down. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

“Um,” he really doesn’t want to have to put words to this, but he knows that won’t stop it. And Eliot should know. “I think I’m going into a, uh, a depressive episode, actually. I was hoping I wouldn’t, but.” Quentin looks at Eliot, cringing slightly, apologetic. “I’m sorry, I... I mean, it does make sense. But alcohol makes them worse.”

Eliot looks terribly worried, for a moment. “Oh, Q...” he says, full of sympathy, then he shakes his head slightly, as if he’s rearranging something in his mind.

“Can you tell me what to do, to help you? Or what to not do?” He smiles softly at him over the table. “Also, can I?” Eliot indicates the waiting dinner with the carving knife and fork in his hands, and gestures to Quentin’s plate.

“Yes, please.”

Eliot serves them both roasted chicken and vegetables, and buttered fresh bread, with herbs. It’s just... it’s lovely. Quentin feels a sadness that doesn’t seem to make sense, unattached to anything, really, just there. He smiles softly at Eliot. “Thank you,” he says, quiet. 

Eliot reaches for Quentin’s hand across the table and holds it for a moment, running his thumb over his knuckles. The touch is helpful—Quentin feels a little stronger, slightly more hopeful.

“I... I don’t know how long this is going to last, or how bad it will get? Usually now, with my medication, they’re only a few days or... or maybe a week? And normally not too bad. But...”

Quentin takes a breath, for nerve, and makes himself look up into Eliot’s kind, worried eyes, to explain this. “Eliot, I’m sorry, I don’t want to ruin everything. It isn’t fun. It can be, um, hard to function. I get sore and tired. Usually I kind of cycle back and forth between sad and numb for a while, before it lifts? God, I’m...” he trails off, at a loss.

“Hey, hey. Hey.” Eliot reaches over the table to touch the side of Quentin’s face and gently tilt it to catch his eyes again. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. You’re not ruining anything.” 

“I feel like I am. I might keep feeling that way.”

“Is it okay if I stay, still? Do you still want that?”

He really does. _Fuck,_ yes. He feels guilty about wanting that, selfish, but... but they’re past that, aren’t they? Eliot doesn’t want to only see Quentin’s best side, now. All of this is going on, and he offered. He’s _offering._ Quentin looks at Eliot: he’s so clearly being careful, restrained and respectful, yet even through his strange sadness Quentin can see the deep care and concern behind his expression.

Finally, he nods. “Yes. If you want to, it’s okay. But I might be... I mean, depression gets kind of inward-focused. And I apologize in advance if I’m bitchy— I’ll try not to be, but there’s a chance.” 

Eliot actually smiles at him, like he thinks that might be _cute,_ or something. “I haven’t seen that side of you.”

“Yeah um. Thus the apology.”

Eliot laughs, and Quentin manages a bit of a smile. Eliot is _so_ lovely when he laughs. Quentin takes a bite of buttered bread. He was worried he’d barely be able to taste it, but it’s delicious. His appetite isn’t great, but that’s okay. He can still enjoy this, for now. And Eliot’s here, and he wants to stay.

“El,” he gratefully reaches out for Eliot’s hand. “This is so good.” 

Eliot just holds his hand, across the table, and smiles softly at him, his beautiful hazel eyes full of feeling. Quentin loves him. So much. That’s the one mercy, he’s found, about depression. As much as it can numb him, sap him of hope and strength, make him think the worst of himself... it doesn’t touch love. It never has.

They talk a little bit about the coming week, what Quentin plans to do, how being depressed may make it all harder. Eliot offers to help, and lets Quentin in on his process around his report. He seems to be holding his hand as much as he can, and Quentin finds that the touch is helpful, it’s grounding and comforting. He still feels tired, and sad, but it’s not too bad, right now. 

Quentin is fairly adamant about washing the dishes, this time. He needs to be contributing, he feels, and Eliot must sense that it’s important, because he gracefully relinquishes the job. 

They get Ted up on Skype again, before they go to bed. He looks like he’s okay—Quentin is worried about him, but Ted reassures him that he’s fine and brushes off continued fussing. He peers at him through the screen, adjusting his glasses.

“Quentin,” he says, “Now, I don’t mean to pry...” Quentin knows that is absolutely not the case, actually. “I’ve seen you looking like this before?”

Quentin is leaned up against Eliot’s shoulder, under his arm, on the couch. It _seems_ objectively the same, but once again, Ted is perceptive. 

“I um. Yeah, I’m feeling a little depressed, as of, a few hours ago? Great timing, I know.”

He grimaces slightly, chagrined, and Ted looks at him with raised eyebrows. “Well, I guess that’s not too surprising. This is a lot of stress and change all at once. I’m sorry to put you through it.”

“Oh no,” Quentin says, “It’s - it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.”

“Well,” Ted says, looking back and forth between them and settling on Quentin, “don’t forget how much soup helps. That can be the easiest thing to eat. And a little exercise, if you can get it. And some time in nature. You remember all that, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “I do. Thanks, Ted.”

“All right,” he says, “now _you_ have to check in with _me._ I’m fine, but I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I’ll be okay,” Quentin tells him, before they sign off. He means it, he’s sure he will. He probably can’t keep Ted from worrying, and he doesn’t want to say anything about being glad Eliot’s there, like it’s his responsibility to look after him, or anything... but as he sets down the computer after the call he does lean a little more deeply into him, relieved and grateful for his affection, and for not having to do all of this alone.

Quentin gets ready for bed in a bit of a trance, on automatic. Puts on his pajamas, brushes his teeth... there’s a creeping feeling of guilt building, about how little he has to offer Eliot, right now. He feels like his emotional resources have nearly dried up, along with his libido. There’s just this... this sadness. Quentin _knows_ how Eliot makes him feel, and he _knows_ that, if things were normal with him, he’d be all over him. But he can’t reach that, right now. 

“I’m sorry, El,” he says, when they climb into bed and Eliot reaches for him and pulls him in, comforting and familiar, against his shoulder. “I’m just. I can’t _do_ anything. The way we usually are.”

“Oh Q,” Eliot murmurs, into his hair. “It’s okay.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I’m just...” He flops his hand helplessly against Eliot’s silk-pajamaed chest. 

“I’m sure.” He squeezes him tighter. “Hey, can I kiss you, though?”

“Yeah. Um, yeah. Please.”

Eliot kisses him, slow and deep, tender. He hums a soft, contented sigh, deep in his throat, like he’s happy just to kiss Quentin. Like he loves him. Like, right now, this is all he needs. 

It takes Quentin a little while, but finally he’s able to let go of the sting of self-judgment. He still feels a little sad, and a little distant from himself, but kissing Eliot, being kissed _by_ Eliot, soft and intimate, is one of the sweetest, very best things... Quentin relaxes into it, relieved, loving him so much. Finally, Eliot pulls away from his lips and kisses his forehead, and then his hair. He nudges Quentin down against his chest and holds onto him under the warm blankets. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Quentin turns to kiss Eliot’s chest, over his heart. He’s so keenly, profoundly in love. And Eliot... _wonderful Eliot..._ It occurs to Quentin that, with a couple of notable exceptions—Margo, and his grandmother—Eliot seems not to have been loved very well, in his life. And yet here he is, in Quentin’s bed, holding him in his arms, and he might not even _know._ But Quentin knows, and suddenly... he needs to... 

He feels the warm solidity of Eliot’s body beneath him as he pushes himself back up in the blankets, so they’re face to face. Leaning up to look at him, Quentin thinks that Eliot looks almost like a sculpture, his fair skin like alabaster or marble in the dim moonlight peeking through a gap in the curtains. But he’s alive and he’s real, and one of his dark, soft curls falls nearly into his eyes as he leans up on his elbow to face Quentin. A little smile plays on Eliot’s lips as he returns Quentin’s gaze. He looks surprised, but fond, and Quentin gently touches the side of his face with his fingers and catches his eyes, dark and shining in the moonlight.

“Eliot,” he says, holding his gaze, “I really love you.”

Eliot swallows and looks at him with _such_ open vulnerability and surprise. “You do?” he asks.

“Yes.”

 _“Quentin,”_ he says, “I... I love you, too.” 

Quentin feels a soft smile spread over his lips. He lets his head tilt slowly forward, his forehead meeting Eliot’s, and closes his eyes. “I love you,” he murmurs, just to... to make sure he’s told him. With the right words.

Eliot slides his fingers silently into Quentin’s hair, at the back of his neck, and Quentin can feel his warm breath, the brush of his nose against his cheek, just before he kisses him. It’s like - it’s like a new thing, this kiss. He holds his lips gently against Eliot’s, smooth and soft, and feels Eliot’s lower lip tremble. Quentin kisses him with all of the careful tenderness in him, finally pressing a gentle kiss just there, where Eliot was shaking. He leans back to look at him, the man he loves, and finds Eliot’s eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Darling, are you all right?” he softly asks.

“Yes, just. I can hardly believe it.”

“Can I, um. Can I hold _you,_ tonight?” 

Eliot smiles at him, soft and real. “I think... yes. Please.” Then he looks down and laughs quietly. “Will we fit on the bed?”

Quentin grins and noses down to kiss him. “Maybe diagonally.”

They do, it turns out. They just fit, with Eliot’s head resting, solid and warm, on Quentin’s shoulder, Quentin’s arms firm around him and Eliot’s legs curled around his, tucked together tightly under the blankets and the big patterned bedspread. Quentin feels Eliot settle against him, his arm across his waist as he holds him tight. 

“I’ve got you,” Quentin tells him. He bends to kiss his forehead.

“Mmm,” Eliot hums, still sounding shaky. He’s quiet for a moment, and then says, into Quentin’s chest, into the night, “I love you too.” 

It takes a long time for Eliot to relax against him, to begin to drift toward sleep. Quentin just holds him, in the moonlight. He wants to, he realizes, bending to press another kiss to the soft curls at the crown of his head. Quentin will just keep holding Eliot, for as long as he wants to be held. He can do that... he has plenty of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They holidays are upon us, and I'm unlikely to be able to keep up with a very regular publication schedule for a while, but I'm still writing just as much as I can. Thank you for sharing this story with me, and for your patience as I get the next chapter ready. It feels like such a privilege, this whole process, with all of you-- I really am honored.


	18. (Sunday Part 1.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day, Queliot fandom! I'm still hustling to get the time to write the last two scenes of this chapter, but here is the first act, as a surprise chapterlet. Thank you all for hanging in there with me. 
> 
> This entire thing takes place in Quentin's bed, so any readers who aren't particularly interested in the sexy scenes may want to skip the long bit in the middle, which is more explicit than I've previously gone, with this work. But there are plot-and-romance-relevant conversations at the beginning and end, and boy-oh-boy, I'm so excited for this pair to be openly in love! <3

Eliot wakes up, stretched out long across Quentin’s bed in the dim, cool early morning, with Quentin gently kissing up his neck, his soft lips very warm against his skin. The contrast with the chill of the air makes Quentin’s mouth feel almost hot, and the huff of his breath over the path of his kisses, his solid weight pressed into Eliot’s side—delicious. Blearily, he locates his own hand and brings it up to find Quentin’s back, to slide it up over the smooth flannel and wrap around the jut of his shoulder blade. He tightens his arm around him—this toasty, nuzzling, kissing man—and smiles in his half-sleep.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Eliot hears Quentin mumble into his hairline. _That_ feels like an auspicious sign. Laughing softly, he wraps his other arm around Quentin to squeeze him tighter.

“Mmmm, ‘morning.” He turns his head to kiss Quentin’s forehead. “Are you feeling a little better?”

Quentin rests his face against Eliot’s neck. His breath is soft and his skin is so warm. “Yeah,” he sighs, “seems like I might be, at least for right now.” 

Eliot hums and holds him for a moment, working up his nerve. Finally he says, “Last night. You said..?”

“Mmhm,” Quentin agrees. He presses a small kiss to Eliot’s neck. “I did.”

Eliot takes a slow, deep breath. He squeezes Quentin tight to his chest for a moment, then relaxes his arms, setting his hands very softly on Quentin’s ribs. 

“Tell me again?”

Eliot can feel Quentin’s lips stretch into a smile against his neck. Quentin raises up on his elbows above Eliot. His eyes are sleepy, but a beautiful warm brown, steady. He grins softly.

“Eliot,” he says, “I love you.”

Eliot closes his eyes for a second, feeling that. Letting it wash over him, trying to let it sink in. He opens them and meets Quentin’s eyes. “I love you, too.”

They share the softest look, a little smile. Private. Quentin loves him. And Eliot loves _him,_ and he gets to say it, now? Eliot doesn’t know if he’s ever _felt_ like this. It’s exhilarating, like he’s looking out over a vast landscape from a great height, the horizon far, far beyond him... yet in the thrill of that, he also feels held, cared for, and... and known.

The closest experience he’s had to this would have been when the plane that he and Margo boarded at JFK left the ground to fly them across the ocean for the first time, into their future. She let him clutch her hand discreetly between them, pretending that it wasn’t his first time on a plane, much less leaving the country, headed to London and then Dublin, toward the graduate program they had chosen together and the life they hoped for. 

He has... he has no idea what will happen to him now, not really. And a small part of him is afraid. But here, now, with Quentin in his arms... _Oh,_ it’s _good_ , and Eliot, who has always been grateful, sometimes desperately so, for every little bit of beauty that the world brought his way... Eliot is in love and he never expected anything as beautiful as this. 

Quentin looks at Eliot with those knowing, warm eyes, frank and vulnerable, and Eliot feels something cross, invisibly, in the small space between them—a soft understanding that they’re feeling this together, that neither of them is alone. He closes his eyes, finally, and pulls Quentin slowly to him and kisses him. 

It’s so gentle. Quentin kisses Eliot back like he’s something precious. Adored. Eliot presses a tiny kiss to the corner of his lovely, wide smile, laughing a little when he’s overcome. 

There’s a little bit of golden sunlight peeking through the crack in the windows, warming and brightening the room, bringing out the gold in Quentin’s hair as he leans up on Eliot’s chest, flushed from kissing. His eyes are soft and a little hesitant as he reaches for the top button of Eliot’s pajamas, runs a finger along the notch of his neck and beneath the cloth. “Hey, can I...?” he asks, glancing quickly down Eliot’s front. The tip of his tongue just _barely_ appears before he bites his lower lip, presumably embarrassed. He’s wonderful. And so sexy. “... or would that, um... ruin the moment?” 

Eliot has to laugh. “Sweetheart.” He kisses Quentin, brief and sweet. “I’m so in love with you.” 

Quentin’s leans his forehead against Eliot’s, his eyes still closed, and softly hums. Eliot continues, “And we’re in your bed. I hardly think morning sex could ruin the moment? Frankly it feels...” He kisses him again, and then just... doesn’t want to stop, drawn into the sweet soft warmth of Quentin’s mouth. Finally he pulls away just enough to murmur, “... it feels very apropos.”

Quentin laughs finally, against his lips, and ducks his head like he’s shy. This man. “Well I mean... if you’re sure...”

He noses down to Eliot’s neck and begins to kiss beneath his jaw, but Eliot finds the side of Quentin’s face and tips his head so he can meet his eyes. “Can I touch you, too?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, with a soft grin. “Yeah. I want you to.”

Quentin is blushing, a little bit, and a slow smile spreads across Eliot’s face. “Anything you want, baby.”

“Mmmm,” Quentin hums and kisses Eliot again, soft and lovely. He runs his tongue along Eliot’s top teeth and pulls gently at his lower lip before ducking back down to resume his attention to Eliot’s neck. “In that case...”

Quentin kisses his way down Eliot’s chest as he reverently undoes the buttons of his pajamas. He nuzzles against his chest hair and softly hums. It’s so personal, with Quentin’s nose, his forehead, his cheek, his lips now pressing gently into the center of Eliot’s chest; it feels unaccountably intimate. Quentin parts Eliot’s pajamas and places a careful kiss in the center of his chest, his breath warm against Eliot’s skin as he seems to just rest there, for a moment. Eliot lets himself just feel it—Quentin’s affection, written so clearly across his face, manifest in the press of his forehead, in the gentleness of his hands. Quentin _loves him._ It fills Eliot with wonder, as he brings his hands up to wend their way into Quentin’s soft hair and cup both sides of his head, and draws him back up into a kiss.

It isn’t a new experience for Eliot, making love to Quentin while _in love with him._ But now... but _now..._ Eliot feels Quentin’s fingers glide over his hipbones, skim along the top edge of his sleep pants, and as he gently lifts his hips to allow him to slide them off and away, he feels vulnerable in a way that he hasn’t, quite, in a long, long time... in a way that isn’t about trusting Quentin with his body, but about so much more than that.

Quentin must sense it, somehow. “El,” he asks, as he noses up his breastbone and kisses the base of his neck, “is this alright?” 

Eliot takes a slow breath. He smooths his fingertips up the sides of Quentin’s back. 

_“Sweetheart,”_ he says, reaching for his usual confidence but landing instead on a kind of unvarnished honesty, “yeah it really, really is.”

He tries to pull himself together. Eliot is many things, but _passive_ is really not among them—he’s much more comfortable taking an active role, feeling at home in the driver’s seat, as it were. “Here, let me get you out of this,” he says, already lifting away Quentin’s flannel pajamas, not bothering with the buttons. “And these.” He kisses the startled smile from Quentin’s lips and makes very quick work of relieving him of his pants, and _ahh, there they are._ Lovely, warm, naked Quentin, lying on top of Eliot and being kissed, the solid pressure and weight and strength of him, and all that wonderful soft skin just waiting to be touched. Eliot feels arousal stirring in him as he glides his hands down Quentin’s back. 

“Sit up, gorgeous. Let me see you.” 

Quentin smiles and rolls his eyes but he _does it,_ clambers up to straddle Eliot’s hips, fingertips brushing his stomach, and _grinds down against him, god,_ with a sweet, teasing grin and his hair swinging to touch the tops of his shoulders. He’s beautiful. Eliot is so relieved to see him like this—happy. Glowing, practically, in the soft morning sunlight, as he leans back a little and takes hold of his own very pretty, already delightfully hard cock and gives it a couple nice long strokes, just so Eliot can watch. 

“Like this, you mean?” Quentin says with a tiny smirk, pushing his fist slowly down over the head of his cock and fucking, _rocking,_ on top of Eliot’s. Oh, he’s a _brat._ Eliot _loves him._ He was getting hard before, but this is—Eliot draws in a quick breath and bites his lip—this is really doing it.

“Mmmm... Q...” Eliot moans softly on the exhale. The way Quentin is moving on top of him is sweetly fantastic, heat and just a little pressure, the soft skin of his perineum against Eliot’s shaft. Eliot parts his legs a little to give his balls more room to be out of the way. He feels so dreamy and _good,_ almost in a trance.

“God, baby... I kind of wish I could be inside you,” Eliot says, but then slowly realizes... _oh fuck..._ where is his filter? One doesn’t just _say that,_ to a bottom, in the moment. And in the morning, of all times... He closes his eyes. “Sorry, Q. Where are my manners? I know it’s not your job to...” 

He feels Quentin press a finger to his lips. “Shhhhh.... El, it’s _okay,”_ and then Quentin is leaning down over him to kiss him. “I _love_ that you want me,” Quentin continues, then presses another kiss to his lips. And then another, and another. “I promise, it’s super okay.”

Eliot parts his lips, opening to Quentin’s kisses, and feels the tip of his tongue glide along the inside of his upper lip. Trying to let go of his self-judgment—never easy when he’s made a mistake—he breathes in deep and focuses on Quentin, on kissing him back, on the smooth skin of his sides beneath his hands. Eliot opens his eyes when Quentin pulls back, to find him smiling like he has just the _very best_ secret, and can’t wait to share it _. God,_ in addition to everything else Quentin is, he’s _so cute._

“But you can, this time, actually,” Quentin says, and sits up and fucking - _stretches,_ clearly showing off, all the muscles of his arms, shoulders, and chest momentarily tight, then grinds down on Eliot’s dick again, making him gasp. “I got up a while ago, then came back to bed.”

Eliot blinks, surprised, and a broad, delighted grin spreads across his face. “You snuck out of bed and did sex prep?”

“Mhmm. And made coffee.” Quentin leans down over Eliot’s front and tangles his fingers in his chest hair, his thighs squeezing his hips. 

That’s it. That’s just it. Eliot reaches down for Quentin, catching him around his chest beneath his arms, and drags him back up to kiss. “Did I mention I love you?” It’s a joke but also it’s _not,_ and Quentin’s little gasp and beautiful smile make it obvious that he _gets_ that, as Eliot tightens an arm around his back and presses a hand up into his hair, nibbles his soft, full bottom lip and slides his tongue into his mouth, deep and hot. 

Quentin rubs his fingertips over Eliot’s nipples and kisses him fervently, already so passionate, the deep, velvet slide of his tongue lighting Eliot up as his weight presses him into the smooth sheets. Eliot glides his hand, broad and flat, down the smooth, heated skin of Quentin’s back, feeling his muscles and arch of his spine. So fucking luxurious. 

Eliot gets his hand around Quentin’s sweet little ass where he’s grinding and now sliding against him. Lovely, wonderful man, he’s so much shorter, he can rub the — _ahh—_ heads of their cocks together, just below Eliot’s navel, while they kiss.

“Let's get the lube,” Quentin gasps as he comes up for air. He’s already reaching for the desk drawer.

“How do you want it, baby?” Eliot asks. 

“Just like this. Wanna ride you.”

Quentin sits up again and pours a stream of slick into his hand, then to Eliot’s surprise he reaches down and wraps it, broad and warm, around both of their cocks. He rolls his head back and moans deep in his throat—which, yes, this feels _amazing,_ but also Quentin is so sexy, _fuck..._ The sun has fully risen, now, and the light spilling around the edges of the curtains is warmer and brighter, kissing Quentin’s skin and illuminating his hair. The sunlight brings out the warm flush in his cheeks and chest, the soft brown of his eyes, the reddened swell of his well-kissed lips and the rosy cast of his nipples and the head of his cock where it presses up from inside his hand. 

The tight slick of Quentin’s hand and the press of his cock feel fucking fantastic, thrilling, pulling pleasure, loose and singing, through Eliot’s body, spooling it low in his hips.

Eliot has to laugh at himself, a little. “Look at you, baby,” he says. “You’re so beautiful. _Quentin._ I never stood a chance.”

Quentin, on top of him, manages to not shy away from that, for once—he supports himself on one hand against Eliot’s thigh and arches back a little, muscles tight as he strokes them together, and tips his face up as though he’s looking at the sky. Eliot can tell that it takes effort for Quentin to be _this_ exposed, that underneath his boldness he’s still shy... yet he does it, again and again. 

_“Sweetheart,”_ Eliot begins babbling, gasping lightly as his nerves light up and his breath comes fast. _“God._ Will you let me touch you? Let me taste you?” He rubs his hands up and down Quentin’s soft, furry thighs. “Would you come up here?”

Quentin’s hand slows, then finally slides away. “Okay,” he says, breathy and soft. “Where do you want me?”

Eliot takes Quentin’s hand and pulls him down for a series of sloppy kisses. “Come up here.”

What Eliot wants is yet another thing he’s never quite done before—not being much of a lying-on-his-back type of lover, normally—but this is a special occasion if he’s ever had one, and he’s inspired. He beckons Quentin up the bed, positions him up on his knees, hovering above Eliot’s shoulders and holding the headboard. “Baby,” he tells Quentin as he looks up over his body, and reaches up to rub his nipples with his fingertips, “this is an _outstanding_ view.”

Eliot takes hold of Quentin’s hips and guides him down a little, so he can lick and suck on his wonderful, flushed cock. The heat of his soft skin and the familiar, masculine scent of him are intoxicating, so erotic and so good. Quentin groans, and Eliot can feel him doing his best to stay still. 

“I want to open you up just like this, sweetheart,” he says, running his thumbs along the soft creases where Quentin’s thighs meet his body. He noses down beneath his scrotum and breathes hot over his perineum, kisses him there. “Is it alright if I....?”

“Oh!” Quentin startles, soft and breathy. “Yeah... Okay, yeah.” 

Eliot cants Quentin’s hips forward slightly and tips his chin to lick, long and slow, over his soft, snug little hole. He feels the muscles of Quentin’s thighs tighten and relax, and he nuzzles into the warm heat at the cradle of his hips, smells the faint scent of his soap and his sweet, woody natural musk, feels the light furriness of him against the planes of his face. God, Eliot likes Quentin’s body _so much._ He holds him by the hips, helps hold him up, as he licks over him and up into him, listening to his quiet little gasps and breathy moans. Quentin’s opening flutters and twitches around his tongue, relaxing for him. It’s sweet and it’s hot, in a way that builds gently as Quentin’s sounds change pitch, as he moans, startled and needy-sounding, rising up above him.

Eliot has to let go of Quentin’s hips for a moment to slick up his fingers. “Okay, baby?” he asks. He draws back enough to look up at him, and sees Quentin leaning down, his hair swinging in curtains around his face, wide lips grinning softly at Eliot and a beautifully fond look in his eyes. 

“Yeah...” he breathes, “so good.” 

Eliot is going to take such good care of him. 

“Okay,” he says, scooting up a bit and reaching his hand back to press the pad of his thumb along the length of Quentin’s perineum and up gently over his hole, “I’ve got you.” 

“You...” Quentin laughs gently, “...you do.” 

Eliot fits his fingers into Quentin, one at a time, slow and slick, while Quentin hovers above him, holding the headboard. He’s soft inside, smooth against Eliot’s fingertips as he curls them forward to glide gently over the spot where he’s most sensitive, the muscles of his rim twitching and releasing around the length of his fingers. _God,_ it’s _so sexy,_ everything about this... the way Quentin feels... how he looks... Eliot takes in the hard jut of his cock, right there where he can kiss around its base; the arcs of his hipbones, dip of his belly, his ribs and his pecs and his stiff little nipples; the broad span of his shoulders, his arms tense where he’s holding on... Quentin’s breath catches as Eliot circles his prostate with his long fingers. “Ohhh.... El...” he barely moans, very soft, and lets go of the headboard to press the fingers of one hand gently into Eliot’s hair. 

Eliot is sure that Quentin isn’t trying to signal anything—he just wants more contact, to be touching him—but he’s still inspired to take his cock back into his mouth while he fingers him, keep it there, give him more.

The slight stretch in his jaw and the hot, velvety press of the head of Quentin’s cock against the roof of Eliot’s mouth feel phenomenal... Quentin smells and tastes so good, and the way his hips stutter—incredibly sexy. Eliot moans in his chest, eyes closed, just feeling it. He has to remind himself to focus on the work of his fingers, open Quentin up, bring him to the place where his muscles relax and give... it’s so tempting, and would be so easy, to get him off just like this, his cock heavy on Eliot’s tongue, pulsing into his mouth. 

Eliot’s dick jumps against his stomach at _that_ particular mental image, and he lets go of Quentin’s hip to reach down and take hold of it, giving himself a couple of nice, long pulls to relieve the pressure. _Oh,_ it feels good, with Quentin’s lovely, hot body moving under his mouth and in his hand—he could easily let himself get lost in this, just swept away. Eliot gathers himself and returns his hand to steadying Quentin at the top of his thigh, but he can’t help but suck, swirling his tongue around Quentin’s glans and working it over the vein on the underside of his cock, trying to make him feel so good, even if only for a minute. 

Quentin gasps and his body jerks and shudders, and Eliot takes him in hungrily, deep into his throat, just - just for a bit, because he _wants to,_ circling his fingertips over his prostate as he does. 

“Ohhhhhhhhmygod, _Eliot,”_ Quentin moans, and tightens his hand in Eliot’s hair. His ass is fully relaxed now, clearly, this is just... this is just pleasure. It’s just for pleasure. Eliot gently groans, almost a purr, deep in his chest. 

“El,” Quentin continues, “Darling, you’d better stop. I still want...” he squirms and presses back against Eliot’s fingers, buried deep inside him, “I still want your cock. Please.” 

Eliot slowly stills his fingers as he pulls off and looks up at Quentin, grinning. “Okay, baby. I’m all yours.”

Maybe it’s a little over the top, but Quentin looks down at him with a tiny intake of breath, obvious desire in his eyes giving way momentarily to something softer. 

“You’re ready, aren’t you?” Eliot asks, and at Quentin’s nod, he carefully withdraws his fingers from his body, petting gently around his rim. They rearrange themselves, Quentin moving back down to Eliot’s hips and then leaning down on top of him to kiss—because of course he wants to kiss, Eliot wants it too—Quentin’s soft, searching tongue and full, sweet lips lighting him up, his teeth scraping gently over his bottom lip.

It’s with practised ease, by now, that they get themselves ready, Quentin pouring lube into his palm and slicking Eliot’s cock. He leans forward to line himself up just _perfectly_ and sinks back onto him—an intense, amazing pressure that makes Eliot gasp as the head of his dick presses inside, followed by the smooth motion of a long, easy slide. Quentin takes him into the tight, hot clutch of his body, and squeezes gently around Eliot’s base as he lets out a slow, pleased groan. “Yessssss... god. Fuck. You feel so good.” 

The _feeling_ of it. _Every time._ Eliot is taking deep breaths, controlled, as he’s nearly overwhelmed by the heat and wet and pressure, the brilliant sensation of being inside Quentin. They seem to be right there together, making their way through the startle of the intensity of it, clinging and breathing together as they fit their bodies to each other like pieces of a puzzle. 

Quentin pushes himself back _hard_ onto Eliot’s cock, grinding against him as he relaxes into the stretch. It’s so intense, the sensation of Quentin’s rim pressing down around him, clenching briefly then relaxing around the base of his cock—Jesus fuck they’re like... they’re like... it’s perfect. Quentin fits to him _perfectly..._ and feeling that, that press and adjustment of his sweet little body, it’s so illegally _hot,_ and Eliot feels so fucking _tender._ Like he wants to fit Quentin exactly, like he wants to... fucking... keep him safe with his dick. It’s ridiculous, but there it is. 

Eliot focuses on the moment and reaches for Quentin, for his shoulders, his hair, his lips. He kisses him and holds him tight to his body, gently rocks up into him, getting them going, starting to create a rhythm. He feels the responding roll of Quentin’s hips and listens to his soft, humming moans.

Quentin’s bending down to kiss him as their bodies move together, barely separating enough for tight little grinding thrusts, their hips gently undulating as Quentins knees frame Eliot’s hips. It feels amazing—warm, bright pleasure slowly building, expanding between them like light, like energy building from where they’re joined, slick and tight. Eliot feels the drag of Quentin’s nipples on his chest, occasionally catching his own and sending sharp little zips of pleasure through him, making him impossibly harder. He loves the hot press of Quentin’s skin against his, covering him from hips to shoulders, his solid weight; Eliot holds Quentin to him with his arms around his back as he kisses him, licking, deep and sensual, into his mouth.

“I’m...” Quentin eventually gasps, “I’m gonna...” Eliot loosens his arms as he feels Quentin shift, and Quentin pulls away from his lips agonizingly slowly, determined but not seeming to exactly _want to,_ and uses his hands to walk himself backward down Eliot’s chest until he’s sitting up. Eliot grins at him. 

“You wanted to ride me?” he supplies.

“Yeah,” Quentin breaths, dreamy, like the words themselves are hot. He squirms a little, adjusting, rocking down onto Eliot’s cock. 

Eliot spreads his thighs a little and gets his feet under him so he can press up into Quentin, catch him if he leans back, and Quentin takes his right hand and weaves their fingers together. He grips him tight, and rises up on his knees, smiling, then lets himself fall down onto Eliot’s cock. 

The _force_ of it, gravity pushing him down in a tight, hot slide—god, it’s phenomenal. So good, sparking pleasure, heavy and sweet, reaching down into Eliot’s thighs. Eliot bites his lip as he grins and pushes on Quentin’s hand, encouraging him.

It doesn’t take long for Quentin to work up a rhythm, rising and falling onto Eliot again and again. He flushes with exertion, his body rolling slightly as his thighs work. He’s beautiful, chasing pleasure, leaning back a little so that Eliot’s dick slides up against his prostate, just right. 

“God, Q,” Eliot begins to babble, “you’re so fucking beautiful. Look at you, all stretched out above me... gorgeous, baby.” The look in Quentin’s eyes is hot with pleasure and desire, his mouth slightly open as he focuses on the effort of his body, breathing fast. Eliot squeezes his fingers and snaps his hips up into him, _hard._

Quentin gasps. _“Oh my god,”_ he laughs.

“Yeah? You want that?”

“Fuck. Yes.” 

Quentin quickly adjusts his knees and leans back a little more, holding onto Eliot’s hand, arm outstretched, for balance. He wraps his other hand around the outside of Eliot’s thigh. “Yeah,” he nods, and positions himself just right, so Eliot can take over.

Eliot surprises himself with the intensity of his desire, how _much_ he wants to do this. He holds Quentin’s hand and looks over his body and into his eyes and _fucks him,_ using the strength of his legs and hips to thrust upward. The force of it is outstanding; Eliot feels tension winding, bright and good, down between his thighs. He snaps his hips, pressing up into Quentin and squeezing his fingers, speeding up his thrusts as Quentin breathes heavy in his chest. 

“Fuck... _oh..._ Eliot, fuck...” Quentin is grinning, gasping. He tilts his hips forward just a little bit more, his long-neglected cock flushed and very hard, standing up against his belly. “Faster? El... can you?”

Eliot can. He feels almost frantic with the effort, holding himself back from the edge of orgasm as he pounds upward against Quentin’s prostate. Quentin begins to lose coordination, his thighs shaking, but he just manages to hold on, his pelvis tight, perineum hard and swollen at the base of his cock, and then suddenly he lets out a loud moan that fills the room and he’s _coming._ He’s coming, and _he’s coming_ —more than usual, and thinner, spilling hot and wet all over Eliot’s stomach and chest. It’s... _fuck,_ it’s _hot:_ Quentin came untouched, on Eliot’s cock. Of course he’s _aware_ of prostate orgasms, but he’s never seen anything quite like _this._ Quentin is clenching tight around him, laughing and gasping as he arches forward, leaning on Eliot’s hand. 

“El, oh my god, keep going. Can you... touch me, please. I don’t think I’m done?”

Incredulous, Eliot drags his eyes away from Quentin’s beautiful, laughing eyes and back to his beautiful, straining cock, which is showing no sign of softening. Amazed, he moves his hand from Quentin’s hip to the wet all over his own stomach, then wraps it around his shaft and smooths it up over his glans. 

Quentin bucks into his hand and leans back, spreading his thighs farther over Eliot’s hips. “Yeah babe,” Quentin gasps as Eliot strokes him and fucks upward into the tight heat of his ass, “Come on. Oh my... jesus... fucking... _Eliot - nnnngh...”_ Quentin’s muscles go tight and his breath catches in his chest, his cock swells impossibly harder in Eliot’s hand, and he comes _again,_ more explosive this time, curling over Eliot’s fist and shouting, leaning hard on his hand. Eliot abandons last shred of control he’s been keeping on his own pleasure. He thrusts up into Quentin, hard and fast, and lets the pulsing clench of Quentin’s orgasm pull him over the edge. Eliot spills deep in the tight heat of Quentin’s perfect body, wild pleasure surging through him, squeezing Quentin’s hand and his hips and gasping his name. 

Eliot laughs, catching his breath—so blown away, almost unable to believe that this is happening, that this is his life. He’s so in love. Quentin’s arm bends at the same time that Eliot pulls him down, and Quentin collapses on top of Eliot and pushes up to kiss him. As he often does after sex, Quentin kisses Eliot like he _needs to,_ and Eliot is right there with him, more than happy to be kissing and kissing, soft and warm and _so_ intimate, wrapping themselves up in the sheets. Like this is who they are, like this is just what they do... which... maybe they are, he realizes. Maybe it is.

“I have to ask,” Eliot finally says, once Quentin has pulled away from his lips and settled on his chest with a soft, contented sigh.

“Oh? About what?” Quentin asks, mock-innocently, like he has no idea. Eliot wants to, like, _tickle him._ He restrains himself.

“I take it that’s happened to you before?”

“Yeah, once or twice.” He tightens his arm around Eliot’s chest and chuckles, and says quietly, “surprise!”

“You’re going to kill me,” Eliot whispers fondly, and kisses him on the forehead.

After they get cleaned up a little bit—thank god for their stack of bedside towels, honestly—they snuggle back under the blankets to cuddle a little more. Eliot cards his fingers through the strands of Quentin’s soft hair, fanning out over his chest where he lays on his shoulder. 

“I can’t believe I found you here,” he admits. “Hiding away, in this little corner of the world.”

“Oh believe me,” Quentin tightens his arm around Eliot’s middle, “I’m surprised, too.”

“When I um...” how is he going to ask this? “When I get back to DC, after the new year...”

“I’ll be in Baltimore.” Quentin looks up at him and grins. 

“You will.”

“That’s a short train ride.”

Eliot slowly breaks into a smile. “It is. Do you think Ted will put up with me, whisking you away for romantic outings?”

Quentin is still grinning, looking at him so softly. His smile shifts to slightly wry. “I’ll help you come up with some good bribes.”

Eliot tightens his arms around Quentin and bodily pulls him upward until he’s able to kiss him. Quentin laughs against his mouth, so lovely, and kisses him back. Eliot’s arms are full of soft, solid, naked Quentin, who is peppering his lips with little kisses... who _loves him..._

“Hey um, speaking of...” Quentin begins, leaning up.

“Speaking of?” Eliot repeats, bemused.

“Romantic outings,” Quentin clarifies, then kisses him again. “I know the timing is. Whatever. Maybe it’s weird. But let’s go to Jinja anyway.”

Eliot’s eyebrows go up. “You’re full of surprises this morning.”

“We’re leaving Uganda. I want to take you to see the source of the Nile.” Quentin’s voice is soft and light, almost musical. He leans back down and kisses Eliot again, warm and perfect. “It’s beautiful. I’ve been wanting to take you somewhere special for just...” He trails off.

“Ages?”

“Ages,” Quentin agrees, smiling, kissing him. “Weeks. Days on end.” 

Eliot’s smiling a warm, giddy smile, nose to nose with Quentin. He loves him so fucking much, he can hardly believe this. He kisses him again, just because. “Do you mean _now?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Adjovi and Ilexa for your outstanding cheer-reading, beta editing, and often-needed encouragement. I can't thank either of you enough for believing in me and in this story.


	19. (Sunday Part 2.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting, dears. And thanks to Ilexa and Adjovi for your encouragement and your help. Here we go!

It turns out that Quentin does mean now, more or less. He’s going to pull, push, and very distractingly kiss Eliot until he leaves the luxury of the early-morning bed and lets himself be taken to see the river. The work of the day can wait for the afternoon, Quentin’s decided, when people in Baltimore are also out of bed. 

They take turns with quick showers, Quentin shaving, the hot water already having softened up his beard, while Eliot gets clean. He’s fantastically appealing, wearing a sleeveless white undershirt and boxers and supporting himself against the sink with one hand, muscles in his arm and chest flexed, while he glides his safety razor over his jaw with an audible _scritch._ Eliot reaches around him to wipe the steam from the mirror with his towel. 

“Handsome,” he says, and Quentin’s eyes twinkle at him in the mirror. Eliot leans to kiss his temple, smells his shaving lotion, and... exercises considerable self-control by letting the man finish shaving rather than wrapping him in his arms and feeling him up. 

“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” Quentin says, as Eliot somehow drags his eyes away from him and ducks out of the tiny space to go towel-dry his hair where he won’t hit anyone with his elbows. 

When he makes his way back to the bedroom with coffee for both of them, Eliot finds Quentin hopping his way into a pair of jeans. He sits down on the bed, feeling extremely fond and terribly lucky, and enjoys the view. The pants are soft, a snug cut in a shade of charcoal that seems like it would convey a certain vibe of working-urban-toughness to most men, but on Quentin... the way they hug his thighs is just delicious, and when he layers on a long-sleeved navy tee and pushes the sleeves up to his elbows, his dark honey hair falling into his face again, he still looks gentle—comfortable and sweet and young. And hot... god. Even after the morning they’ve had, Eliot can’t _not_ notice the spread of his shoulders in that shirt, the lines of his back. 

Eliot sips his coffee, indulgently caught up in how soft and cute and sexy Quentin is, but Quentin is focused—adorably focused. He’s found his phone and is checking something.

“Okay, it looks like... probably no rain, for a few hours. I’ll arrange a rental car and start packing us breakfast for the road, while you’re getting dressed?” He turns to look at Eliot, pushing his hair back out of his eyes, then comes over and leans down to kiss him sweetly. 

Eliot is so in love. “Okay,” he says, his fingers finding Quentin’s and squeezing before Quentin huffs, a little grin, and scampers out of the room. 

The rainy season in Kampala is really doing a number on Eliot’s sense of style. The shoe situation alone... so many things simply cannot _be_ worn with _duck boots._ As he considers his options, Eliot reminds himself that he’ll be trying to impersonate a straight man on vacation, anyway. Dressing to blend in is _not_ his forte, never mind how impossible that is for a 6’2” white guy. Eventually he settles on a blue shirt—a calming, trustworthy color—in a shade that doesn’t _match_ Quentin's, but will subtly _go._ Textured sepia trousers—again so they don’t match— will work with the boots. A vest? Lighter brown herringbone waistcoat. He can roll up his sleeves if the day gets warm. By the time Eliot’s ready, his hair and everything, his coffee cup empty, Quentin is handing him a travel mug and taking their raincoats off the hooks by the front door. 

“Just got the text; they’re waiting for us down on the road... oh. You look.” Quentin swallows and blinks, with a slight intake of breath. Eliot will _absolutely_ take _that_ reaction. “Really nice,” Quentin finishes. He smiles at Eliot and puts a hand on his shoulder and just casually raises up to kiss him before they walk out the door... but it lingers, so sweet, warm on Eliot’s lips as he picks his way down the path.

It’s warming up, in the mid-morning on Mulago Hill, here in the first week of October. The sun is moving through patchy clouds, and the mist is already rising from the wet, forested slope. Eliot can smell flowers, the sweet nectar of something that’s still blooming, unhindered by the wet season. He follows Quentin through the bushes, raincoat open and holding his coffee cup, until they emerge at the road, where two cars are waiting.

Quentin leaves Eliot with the small, lidded basket that he’s been carrying while he talks to the drivers and signs something, then after a handshake he’s handed the keys. Both drivers climb into one of the cars and drive away, leaving them with a sedan, large and maroon and nondescript. It isn’t exactly sexy, but it has plenty of leg room and plenty of head room, and will definitely blend in on the roads in Kampala. Quentin holds the keys up to show Eliot and grins at him. “It’s all ours for the rest of the day.”

Eliot can feel himself smiling. It does feel a bit like they’re getting away with something, driving out of town to go see the sights together. Quentin comes around to the passenger side, opens the door, slides the seat all the way back, and stands back to offer it to Eliot, his arm outswept and a little grin on his face.

“Doctor Coldwater,” Eliot teases, “so gentlemanly. I didn’t know you drove.”

“Not often, but yep.” Quentin smiles slightly as he closes the door for Eliot, then slides into the driver’s seat. “Let me get us out of the city, and we can switch if you want.”

Eliot cracks up at the surely unintentional innuendo. “Mmm, I’ll keep that in mind.” He grins as Quentin rolls his eyes at himself and blushes.

“You know what I meant.”

“Mm-hmm.” Eliot smoothes his hand up Quentin’s thigh as they pull away, the red packed earth of Mulago Hill Road rolling beneath them and the green of the trees and vines crowding in from the sides. He catches glimpses of the rolling slope as they make their way up and around the hill, before slowly descending into the city.

The buzz and press of traffic in Kampala always feels like a surprise; it's disarming, even though Eliot’s been in it many times, now. Noisy bodhas zip around them, leaning into curves, as Quentin maneuvers them through huge city roundabout intersections and onto thoroughfares. He’s careful, intent and a little fidgety, but he’s got it. Eliot observes the buildings and billboards out the window, trying not to put even more pressure on Quentin by watching him. Kampala slides by, a modern city with old colonial roots evident in its buildings, its showy pillars and heavy gates and giant palms, its glass and steel and grey stone. Somehow they’re avoiding the worst of the traffic jams, for which he’s grateful.

He’s taken his hand back off of Quentin’s thigh, out of caution. “So this town,” he begins, “Jinja. How far is it?”

“It should be about an hour and a half, after we get out of the city. I’ve been there a couple of times, before. I don’t really want to do the big tourism-center thing, if that’s okay with you? I’m thinking of an area a little out of the way. Do you mind missing the welcome-dancing, staged photo opportunities, gift-shop stuff?” 

Eliot scoffs. “Not even remotely.”

“Good. But I think you’ll like the river, it’s beautiful.”

The outskirts of the city are lush, with vegetation trying to spill onto both sides of the old Kampala-Jinja Highway. It’s an unmarked two-lane road, with wide dirt shoulders where bicyclists and pedestrians move from place to place, small commercial areas popping up once in a while. They pass a sugar factory, and a small roadside market. Motorcycles pass them. Women walking on the roadside wear colorful wrap skirts, some carrying heavy bundles on their heads—it reminds Eliot of a postcard. There’s a gentle downward slope to the land, and he can see the rolling of the landscape stretching into the distance, green with grasses and trees, palms and sugarcane and gardens tucked beside houses. It feels so indulgent to lean back, stretch out his legs a little bit and enjoy the scenery. 

Quentin is a good driver, confident and relaxed now that they’re out of the city traffic. For all that Eliot adores the flustered, nervous side of him, with its bursts of nearly painful cuteness, he also loves this calm, capable side of Quentin, so at home in his own skin. Once they’re leaving most of it behind them, heading east through a more rural landscape presumably between towns, Quentin reaches for Eliot’s hand. 

Eliot’s happily settled into holding it, enjoying the warmth passing between them, when Quentin says, “Hey, would you unwrap breakfast?”

Lifting the lid from the basket, Eliot finds chicken salad sandwiches, cut into wedges and wrapped carefully in squares of waxed paper, and a cloth bag of figs. He unwraps a triangle and passes it to Quentin, then gets one for himself. They’re excellent—made from the leftover chicken from last night, and the bread he baked, savory and a bit lemony and light. 

It’s all so nice. Being taken care of isn’t something that Eliot’s ever let himself lean into wanting, for obvious reality-based reasons, and normally that’s absolutely fine. He and Margo have a rhythm; Bambi is his rock and he would trust her with his life, but making him a nice breakfast wrapped in, like, old-fashioned waxed paper origami is _far_ outside of her purview. He lets himself enjoy it, feeling a bit vulnerable and oddly touched. 

He needs to talk to her soon, he realizes. Pulling out his phone, Eliot finds he has service, for now. 

_Bambi,_ he types, _Q is taking me to see the source of the nile._  
_he rented a car and made cute sandwiches._  
He feels so fucking... effervescent. He adds several heart emojis.  
_we’re on the road outside Kampala._

After a few minutes she writes back:  
_Ooo adventure date? go Quentin!_

_Is it a date, really,_  
Eliot types, smiling to himself, drawing it out,  
_if the boy’s already said he loves you?_  
_the words “romantic excursion” were used._

Eliot laughs as Margo replies immediately:  
_Eliot you cock, could you have led with that?_

He sends a laughing emoji.  
_I don’t know... seemed gauche._

Margo is going to kill him. He watches the little bubbles appear and disappear while she types, and is surprised by her next message. 

_Are you happy? are you okay?_

Touched, he types out, _More than okay._ He reaches out for a moment to catch Quentin’s hand, just needing the contact. Quentin turns briefly to smile at him and squeezes his fingers back. 

“Margo?” Quentin asks.

“Yes.”

_Happy for you, honey. i want all the details when you can talk._  
_send me a pic from the river._

_I love you, Bambi._

_Love you too, you sappy bitch._  
_and be fucking careful out in public in uganda._

He sends her another heart and a kiss emoji, and puts away his phone.

After they’ve finished the sandwiches and a couple of soft, sweet figs—so sensual, Eliot makes a mental note that he’d love to slice and hand-feed them to Quentin, some time—and drunk the last of their coffee, Quentin asks Eliot if he’d like to drive. Eliot would, actually, so Quentin maneuvers their car off to the side of the road and puts it in park. Cars continue to speed by them to their right, and he looks behind him. “God,” Quentin laughs at himself, “I’d really like to be able to kiss you, for a few minutes. But.”

“Not wise,” Eliot provides.

“Not wise.” Quentin squeezes his hand before carefully opening his car door and slipping outside, so Eliot follows suit and makes his way to the driver’s seat. 

It feels good, after he adjusts the seat and mirrors and pulls out onto the road. In the far distance he can see a forest, but for now it’s lush, grassy landscape with farm fields set back from the road, variegated shades of green and some golds, cooler and hazy in the distance.

The Mabira Forest Reserve, when they do reach it, seems to swallow the narrow road and everything on it. Tall trees crowd in from the sides, and Eliot’s eyes have to adjust to the sudden lack of light. In the dimness, the green of the trees is deep and cool; the road is quieter, the traffic sparser and slower. He can hear the echoes of distant animals—birds, and possibly the calls of monkeys. The car they’re traveling in suddenly feels small. Quentin reaches for Eliot’s hand and squeezes it, and then leaves it on his own leg.

“There are about 120 square miles of this forest,” Quentin says softly, “and a bunch of little settlements are inside it. It’s almost all secondary—the old growth was logged by the ‘50s.” His voice sounds almost reverent, like he’s in a cathedral talking about the renaissance paintings, as he continues. “The biodiversity, though... there’s _so much_ life.” 

Indeed, it seems like it, from the din around them; even right beside the road, it sounds like it’s teeming. Eliot catches sight of a pair of enormous blue and yellow crested birds in the trees, as they pass. “There used to be elephants here,” Quentin explains, “before half of the forest was cleared for sugar and coffee plantations. Then about fifteen years ago, the government tried to give a third of what’s left to a sugar company for biofuels. That keeps happening, actually.”

“Unsuccessfully, I take it?”

“Yeah. The protests were intense, a couple of people were killed in these, like, racially-charged riots, because the sugar company was Indian.”

“Jesus.” It’s a different side of international relations from Eliot’s field, which frequently deals with the human consequences of wars over land and resources. Margo’s work sometimes touches more on the causes of such things, he knows. 

“There’s international pressure to protect the endangered species, now. I wouldn’t say the forest was like, wholly safe? But they’ve set up eco-tourism to get money into the local villages. You can go on guided wildlife tours, see the crested mangabeys. And there’s ziplining.” 

Eliot grins. “There’s always ziplining.”

“Hey, over one of the bridges into Jinja, there’s bungee jumping. You up for that?”

He’s joking. Probably. “Absofuckinglutely not.”

Quentin laughs, bright and beautiful, and Eliot smiles to himself as the forest canopy squeezes in around them. It’s majestic, but he finds it hard to focus on anything other than Quentin beside him, in this little car on this little highway in this big, dense forest in this big, hostile country. On the feeling of Quentin’s hand in his. On everything that Eliot needs to do, right now and for the next week, to keep them safe. 

Eventually they leave the forest behind them, emerging into the brighter light of a silver-clouded sky and the rolling, patchy greens of gradually descending farmland. Another town slows them with its small markets and intersections, people walking on the shoulder of the highway, and then Quentin directs Eliot to turn to the north, onto a local road. He doesn’t really want to go to Jinja proper, he explains, to cross the river on a high bridge and make their way through the town center to the tourist area. Eliot certainly doesn’t mind forgoing the hydroelectric dam, nor the welcome center with its souvenirs and photo-ops. Instead, they drive on a narrow, built-up road between fields and wetlands, with copses of trees and occasional buildings on higher ground. Most of them are probably small homes, but he does spot what is likely a barn, and the telltale crossed steeple of a church. 

After they come around a wide bend, Eliot stops the car on the shoulder so they can watch a large flock of white cranes landing in a broad, shallow marsh. The birds’ feet skim the water and reeds before they splash down, their wide wings and calls a cacophony of sound and motion. The day has warmed up, now, so they fold their coats and put them in the back seat, and leave the car windows open to the humid air.

“We’re almost there,” Quentin says, when they get moving again. “We’re heading downriver a little, away from the town. There are lots of little falls and cataracts— people do rafting trips— but if I remember... I think there’s a peaceful stretch up here.” 

After a couple of miles they find it, a wide swath of heavy, thick woods bordering the smooth, shining water of the “peaceful stretch” of the headwaters of the White Nile, shortly after it’s emerged from Lake Victoria and is making its way northward. Eliot pulls the car off to the side of the road and they can just see it, when they climb out, as they look downslope between the trees. Quentin looks at him with a soft, sure smile, and silently leads him on the walk to the river, breaking onto a side path that winds through the woods for a few minutes before they emerge on the riverbank. 

The river is shallow where it curves toward them in a wide meander, maybe only a few inches deep, shining and reflecting the soft grey light of the sky; it seems to deepen dramatically toward the opposite bank. Eliot sets a hand on Quentin’s shoulder and draws in a deep breath of thick air. 

“It _is_ beautiful, Q.” 

Quentin nods and points to a jut of driftwood emerging from the sandy riverbottom just downstream. A large turtle and several small black and white birds are occupying the log, sharing the soft sunlight. “They call it ‘The Source of the Nile.’ There are several sources, but still... this one has over four thousand miles to go, before it reaches the sea.” 

Eliot can see a ways off into the distance, across the broad span of the river and up the forested bank to the east, some rolling hills with buildings tucked among them, the characteristic palms and soft, bushy trees of an unmistakably African landscape. What a gift to be able to witness this, in this part of the world. 

Quentin is right beside him, and Eliot brings his hand up behind his back to settle on his shoulder. “This is okay?” he checks. 

“Yeah, I...” Quentin mirrors him, reaching for his shoulder behind his back and wrapping his broad hand around it, their arms crossed in an _X_ behind them. “Yeah, this is fine.” He squeezes Eliot’s shoulder; the warmth and strength of his hand feels good through his shirt. Quentin grins. “Look, if we point at something in the distance we look like scouts on the cover of _Boys’ Life.”_

Eliot cracks up, bending over himself. “Oh my god, Q.” 

“I’m right though,” Quentin says, laughing. “So hetero.” 

“Not _strictly_ my youthful experience of the scouts.”

Quentin’s laugh is like music. Eliot squeezes his shoulder back and just enjoys him, feeling so lucky. When he returns his eyes to the river, he does spot something: dark shapes, reflective and... lumpy? Seeming to float in the deep water near the far bank. He stretches his arm out to point at them, like a damned straight-acting wilderness explorer.

Conversationally, he asks, “Q? What do you think those shiny lumps are?”

“Those, my love,” Quentin says, finally gaining control of himself and making Eliot’s heart skip all at the same time, “are hippos.”

“Hip... ... holy shit.” 

Quentin giggles again, but Eliot is agog. There must be... eight? ten? wild hippopotamuses within... god... thirty yards of them? “I’m going to assume we should _not_ try to get their attention.”

“That assumption would be, um, very correct.”

They stand a few feet from the edge of the water and watch for a bit, as the innocuous-looking, mud-colored bumps in the river’s surface move slowly around. Eliot can pick out some twitching ears, now that he’s looking for them, and then a bird lands on one and it _yawns,_ absolutely _enormous_ jaws stretching out of the water before sinking, begrudgingly it seems, back under the surface. 

“Oh my god. People go _in_ this river?”

Quentin nods, with a wry little smile on his lips. “They do, but it belongs to those guys.”

Eliot takes in the view, everything he can see, his eyes sweeping across the river and the landscape and the huge, bright sky. “Thanks for bringing me here,” he says, quiet and sincere.

Quentin squeezes his shoulder in acknowledgement. “I know you love to travel. I wish I could take you there,” he’s pointing upriver, to a cluster of white buildings tucked into the trees in the far distance, on the opposite bank. “It’s a resort - you know, for a weekend? Or even just dinner? But just... I don’t think I could do it. I don’t think I could pretend not to be in love with you.” 

Eliot feels tears at the corners of his eyes. He squeezes Quentin a little tighter to his side. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” How does he not kiss him, after that? “I love it. And you.” He looks down and Quentin meets his eyes with a soft smile and there it is again, the understanding, unspoken and gentle, passing between them. How rare this is, how precious, how it’s theirs to protect.

They turn back to the river, silently watching the hippos and the water birds, the shining, moving Nile with its hidden depths, listening to the sounds of animals and the gentle lapping of water. Some kind of stork with a wide, blue bill arrives and plucks a fish from the river before disappearing, heavy-looking and improbable, into the trees. 

“Do you want to take a few pictures?” Quentin asks. Eliot hadn’t even thought of it, but of course he should. 

“Yeah, good idea. Margo asked for one of us at the river, is that okay?” 

Quentin takes a moment to respond. “Yes, if it’s just for Margo? Can you ask her not to share it? I’m just... very private. I don’t usually like to be in pictures.”

Eliot arranges the selfie to show the Nile flowing away behind them, vertically in the frame of the picture, their arms around each others’ shoulders. He gets Quentin to laugh, and ends up with a beautiful smile and dimples, which he loves. Then he takes a panorama of the river, and tries to get a close-up of the hippos, which end up looking like not much at all in the photo. The sun-basking turtle is much more photogenic and cooperative. 

“So, I don’t think it’s really over,” Quentin begins a little bit later, as they’re walking along the riverbank. A kayak went by a while ago, manned by a laughing white girl who had called hello to them from the water and a dark-skinned Ugandan boy—teenagers, and probably not a threat, but it had startled them out of the small sense of privacy they had been enjoying, the solitude gone. 

“What isn’t, Q?”

“The depression, I mean. This time. It feels like it gave me a break today? Like a little grace period. Sometimes it’s better in the mornings but then it gets worse later, and I don’t know if that’s coming? I just... I wanted to warn you. That we’re not out of the woods.”

“Okay.” Eliot swallows. “I’m here for you in any case.” 

He looks at Quentin where he’s stopped beside him, beautiful, and feels so protective. “Fuck, Q,” he murmurs, under his breath, “I wish I could actually hold you.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, quiet, and swallows. “Me too. Let’s go home?”

They take one last long, sweeping look at the shimmering river, Eliot’s eyes lingering on the distant hills and the sky, and then make their way up the path through the woods, pushing aside low palm fronds. The humid air is warming around them, and the sounds of insects, birds and the soft rumble of the river crowd their ears. Uganda is beautiful, but deceptively so, for men like them. Eliot wants to take the man that he loves and spirit him away from here, back to Europe, back to DC, back to someplace where holding him protectively won’t make them _less_ safe. 

Eliot drives this time, guiding them back through the rural landscape and toward the highway and the towns. They stop in the first one to buy lunch from a stand at a little market: the warm, fragrant Ugandan rolex, eggs and vegetables and herbs rolled in soft flatbread, and fruit salad in paper cups. Eliot remembers when Quentin first bought him one of these, at Owino market, on their first date. It seems like ages ago—he feels like he was a different man. He was, in a way: he was a humanitarian researcher, on an assignment, enjoying a little travel and flirting with a cute guy. Now he’s a gay man who is deeply in love in the middle of Uganda. Along with everything else, it’s given him a new, sharper focus.

Quentin is acting weird, over in the passenger seat. Eliot might be tempted to think it was just his energy lulling, a mid-afternoon down-swing in his mood, or an impending nap, but... he’s fidgeting too much. Twisting his fingers together, moving his legs like he can’t get them comfortable. 

They’re on a long stretch of road, narrow and almost a straight shot for a while, with no one around. A bunch of some kind of water buffalo are up ahead, lumbering beside the road, heads weighed down by their heavy horns. Seems to be a pretty safe situation, Eliot thinks, at least homophobia-wise; the water buffalo can go ahead and judge, if they must. He can easily drive one-handed, so he reaches over to take hold of Quentin’s hand.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Am I so obvious?” Quentin wiggles in his seat, angling his body toward Eliot and pulling up his knees. He doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Oh no, not at all,” Eliot says, airily. “But also, yes.”

Quentin snorts, shakes his head. “Okay so. I um. Let me preface this...” He seems particularly fretful, and Eliot waits while Quentin takes a deep breath and pushes back his hair. “So, I haven’t been in anything that felt like, um, a _relationship,_ in a long time. And I haven’t been...” He breathes out. “I haven’t let myself fall in love.”

Eliot feels so tender. Maybe he should be afraid, right here, but for some reason he isn’t. “We have those things in common, Q,” he says, softly.

“Right. I... yeah. I know. But, so...” Quentin takes a deep breath, like he’s about to dive underwater, before he continues. “There are a bunch of things about my life that I haven’t _told_ anyone, in a long time. I have - um, an _unusual_ past. With a lot of, frankly, hard to believe stuff in it? And, and I make, kind of, a weird partner? There are challenges to being with me, that are - well. I think one would want to know about all that, if, um. If they were thinking about—about wanting to be close to me, for very long. And I, um.” 

Quentin angles himself more toward Eliot in his seat, and squeezes his hand, and holds the pressure, steady. “I really love you, Eliot. And I don’t want to keep things from you, you know? Because it feels like, I mean, it feels like that might be where we’re headed—for a real relationship. Which, I would love, obviously—I would feel _so_ lucky—but that’s beside the point, which is that. Um. I have some things to tell you. Because - because we’re getting more serious, and you’re _very_ important to me.”

Eliot can’t imagine what Quentin could have to reveal that would have him this wound up, but what stands out in his mind are the phrases, “I really love you,” and “real relationship,” and “I would love,” and _“so_ lucky.” He feels a brightness in his chest, a skip of elation at the idea that it sounds like that’s something Quentin wants, too?

 _“Quentin,"_ he begins, and then pauses. Are they about to become a real couple? It feels like that might be happening, and yet Quentin is having some sort of past-disclosure crisis, problem-of-conscience anxiety thing, and Eliot just feels _love._ He just feels _happy._ He squeezes his hand back. “Sweetheart, I love you, too.” Then, scanning the roadside water buffalo situation, he reaches for humor, because it’s the kind of reassurance he knows, coming easily to hand. 

“Are you a werewolf? Because if that’s the case, I feel like we can probably still make it work.” 

Quentin huffs, chuckles softly and shakes his head. “What? No, that’s. Okay, actually... I know that was a joke, but - if you’re okay with werewolves, maybe I feel a little better.” His voice is dry, and he looks at the road. Eliot waits for a couple of minutes, but it seems like Quentin may not actually be ready to have this big conversation that he’s planning. He glances over at his worried face, and shoots him a small smile.

“Are we talking, nefarious criminal past? Jewel thief would be interesting.”

“Oh!” Quentin doesn’t quite laugh. He smiles tightly and swallows, clearly so nervous about whatever it is. “No, I’m, um - I’m not that. Like, at all. I’m pretty much, just—‘what you see is what you get.’” 

He’s fidgeting, clearly miserable, trying to make himself talk about whatever it is that’s bothering him, possibly sinking into some kind of anxiety spiral, and Eliot hates to see it. 

“Well that’s very lucky for me, then.”

Eliot wishes he wasn’t driving. He slows the car to a stop, pulling to the side of the road and setting the brake so he can turn to Quentin and take both of his hands, look him in the eyes.

“Sweetheart, listen,” he says, “whatever you’ve been through in your life, _it couldn’t change how i feel about you.”_ Eliot assumes that’s true. It certainly _feels_ true. “You don’t have to talk about it now, while you’re under so much stress. Do you think you can just let me be with you, for now?” 

Quentin looks at him like he’s pleading for something with his big, beautiful brown eyes—it’s an expression so complex that Eliot can’t read everything behind it, but there’s at least a little sorrow, and a little relief. 

“I really do love you,” Eliot tells him, keeping his voice as gentle as he can. “And as beautiful as it is here, and as much as it means to you, to be honest I can hardly wait to get the fuck out of Uganda so I can—fucking—hold your hand in public and kiss you and take care of you like the boyfriend I really, really want to be. So...” Eliot takes a breath, and continues, surprised by this forthrightness that he didn’t know he had in him, but everything he’s saying feels right, “trust me, if you can? I love you, Quentin. If it’s easier, you can tell me anything you think I should know after we’re safely out of this country.”

Quentin takes a deep breath, frowns. He lets it out and seems to deflate, there in the seat beside Eliot. Eliot squeezes his hand and waits for him to respond.

“Okay,” Quentin says. “I’m not gonna promise not to bring it up again. It’s all pretty important, you know, background information to have, if you want to consider me as, like, a boyfriend prospect.”

“Baby, I’m pretty sure I’m the ‘boyfriend prospect.’ But okay.”

Quentin smiles a soft, strange little smile, and squeezes his hand back, then leans back in his seat and relaxes as Eliot pulls the car back onto the road and focuses on the far distance. 

Maybe Eliot should be taking this more seriously, but he’s just... he’s just giddy, truthfully. He’s just told Quentin that he wants to be his _boyfriend,_ and he can’t help himself, after a couple of minutes.

“Is it a secret love child?”

“What?”

“Ooh, is there... mmm... a disgraced politician, or like... university president, or... or _priest,_ out there somewhere, pining for you? Did you bring about the downfall of a noble house?”

“Eliot!” Quentin seems to be trying to sound outraged, but he’s laughing. “No! None of that.”

“Pity. It’s very plausible. You’re sufficiently sexy.”

“Oh my god. Eliot.” Quentin is blushing, his head in his hand, and Eliot grins and holds on to him through the solitary countryside as he drives him home. 

#

The Kampala traffic isn’t wonderful, but it’s manageable. Eliot tries to adopt a zen sort of approach to it, moving the car when he can, watching the bodhas zip around them. When they’re almost back to Mulago Hill, Quentin calls the car rental company and arranges to hand the keys off on the road by his house. He’s very polite on the phone, and very competent. Eliot kind of loves the contrasts in how Quentin carries himself, when he’s confident and when he’s shy or uncertain, when it’s more personal. It feels like a privilege to be able to get to know all of this, the different sides of him.

Winding slowly up the road toward Quentin’s house feels terribly strange. Although he’s been in plenty of Ubers, Eliot’s driving now, and he has almost a sense of deja-vu, remembering the first time he walked up this narrow, wooded road with Quentin. It had been warm that day, and clear; he remembers the heavy scents of the flowering vines, overgrowing the roadside fences, and the chatter of the vervet monkeys in the trees. Quentin, in his little short-sleeved shirt and shorts, with his beautiful smile that turned shyer, the closer they got to the house. 

Now it’s cooler and wet, the occasional overhanging mahogany dripping fat drops onto the windshield, the air still fragrant, but muggy and thick. 

“Thanks,” Quentin says, “for being up for this.”

“I loved it,” Eliot catches his eyes, lovely warm brown with long lashes, and can’t help but smile at him, feeling so fucking fortunate. 

They hand off the keys with little fanfare, and make their way back up the path, Quentin leading the way through the muddy hillside soil, raincoats protecting them from the worst of the wet that brushes against them on all sides. Their boots get left on the stoop, to be carried back to the washtub later and rinsed off. 

“I’m going to need mine again in a little bit,” Quentin says as he takes off his raincoat just inside the now-closed door. “I need to go see a couple of my neighbors. But I have to talk to my attorney first. It’s, um... about eight a.m., in New York?”

“You have an attorney? In _New York?”_ Most of the people Eliot knows around their age are established enough to have, like, a bank account, tops. Everyone rents... no one even owns a fucking printer. Mystery man, indeed.

Quentin only nods, preoccupied with his coat. Eliot finishes hanging his own and reaches for Quentin, pulling him in. He tries not to grin too much as he says, “I’m thinking perhaps ‘werewolf’ was a bit off. Vampire?” 

Quentin looks up at him with a wry smile. “No. But you’re getting warmer.”

Laughing, Eliot bends down to kiss him. God, it’s been so many hours since he kissed Quentin. He slides his fingers up into his hair, behind his ear, and pulls him up with his other arm around his back. Quentin’s lips are soft and open, sweet, and he kisses back so warmly, like he’s been waiting for this too. Like he adores Eliot, and wants him, and—Quentin’s kisses grow more heated and he flexes and writhes suggestively  in his arms—like he would maybe like Eliot to take him straight back to bed.

Eliot smiles when he draws back, his hand still on Quentin’s neck. “So sexy, baby,” he whispers in his ear. 

“Mmm... you’re the...” Quentin kisses him again, going up on his toes, “you’re the more likely one, for um. Vampirism. In, you know... the late Gothic Revival or um... Victorian romance sense. All tall, and beautiful... with your um...” They’re kissing. It’s wonderful. “...your waistcoats. And everything.” 

“Mmhmm,” Eliot agrees, amused. He nips at Quentin’s lip. “If I were, you’d be powerless to resist me, wouldn’t you?” He feels Quentin shiver in his arms. This is certainly moving fast; it’s a little unexpected, but he’s more than willing to go for it. He leans to purr into his ear, low and quiet. "Would you like me to whisk you away and have my way with you, Quentin?”

Eliot looks at Quentin and actually _sees_ his pupils get wider. “That...” Quentin stutters, soft and breathy, “I... okay.” 

Grinning, Eliot gets an arm around Quentin’s back and backs him into the bedroom, still kissing him. Once they’re through the doorway, he spins Quentin around and crowds him back against the door, pinning him by his arms and with the weight of his body. 

“Oh my g...” Quentin gets out, before Eliot ducks down to suck on his neck, “...ahh.”

The salt of Quentin’s skin and his warm, earthy, sweet smell... he’s intoxicating. 

“I wish I could mark you up,” Eliot muses, moving his mouth to bite gently at the side of Quentin’s neck so that he doesn’t, in fact, do so. 

“Oh my god,” Quentin gasps. “My chest. Do it. Mark me on my—On my chest.”

It goes straight to Eliot’s dick— _fuck._

Quentin is still wearing that soft navy tee shirt. Eliot slides his nose under the collar and licks along Quentin’s clavicle, teases his shoulder with his teeth as he reaches for the hem, and then _pulls it,_ stripping it off of him. His undershirt goes with it, and Quentin lets his head thunk back against the door, hair all messed up, his chest rising and falling hard. Eliot bends his knees to press his hips in against Quentin’s, grinding up against him as he holds him to the door.

Here is something Eliot knows he’s good at: holding a soft, sweet man against a wall, giving him what he wants. God, Quentin is a submissive little _dream._ Just enough sharp edges, just enough self-consciousness, that little part of him that thinks “oh I _should_ push back...” so that when he finally lets himself surrender, all soft and liquid under Eliot’s mouth and hands and the weight of his body, it’s so _delicious._ They both know, obviously: this is a dance, it’s a game. But Eliot likes the part he’s playing, and Quentin... surging beneath his mouth as Eliot kisses his way down his neck and over his sternum, chest heaving, dick obviously straining at his jeans... he’s so fucking hot. So perfect, pushing his pec up into Eliot’s mouth, waiting to be _marked._

Eliot holds Quentin’s shoulders tight to the door as he pulls a stiff-soft, pebbled nipple into his mouth and sucks, circles it with his tongue and pinches it between his lips. Quentin gasps and then _whines,_ holy god, _“Ellllliot... nghhh...”_

“Okay, baby?” Eliot asks, gentling the nipple with his tongue.

 _“Yessss.”_ Quentin squirms against the door, his hips pressing against Eliot’s stomach where he has him pinned. 

“In that case...” Eliot pushes his body weight hard into Quentin, puts his mouth on the swell of his pec, above and to the side of his nipple, parting his soft, fine chest hair, and _sucks,_ hard and then harder, strong enough to leave a violet-red mark. 

“Oh god! Oh, _Eliot,”_ Quentin moans, jerking his hips, probably not even consciously, against Eliot’s stomach. Fuck, it’s _so sexy._

Eliot takes Quentin’s arms in both of his hands and lifts them over his head, pins them to the door and holds them there with his right forearm over his wrists. He kisses him, deep and dirty, fucking his tongue into his mouth, swallowing the lovely little whine that comes from his throat. With his other hand he reaches to cup Quentin’s poor trapped dick through his jeans.

“This won’t do. Let’s get you out of there,” he murmurs, low and sensual, and then sucks on Quentin’s neck beneath his jaw as he undoes his fly and frees him from his jeans, pulls him loose of his boxers. 

Quentin’s dick is hot in his hand, so hard, warm-wet at the tip. Eliot rolls the palm of his hand over the velvety-soft skin of the head, circling the wetness around, and listens to Quentin gasp as his body shudders. Twisting his hand around, he strokes him from root to tip and back down to the root, presses his fingers down into his boxers to cup his balls.

“I’m. Oh my... jesus, Eliot. I need. Please. Put something _in my mouth.”_

 _Oh,_ that’s a new one. “You need something in that pretty mouth, baby?” Quentin nods vigorously, and Eliot leans in to kiss him as deeply as he can, hard and hot with absolutely zero reserve. Quentin’s tongue presses and curls, strong and wet around his, _fuck, he’s amazing..._ the kiss is so gorgeously filthy and erotic that it goes straight to Eliot’s dick, now very hard where it’s pressed up against Quentin’s thigh. 

Eliot has a choice to make, if Quentin needs something in his mouth. He can let go of his hands, or he can let go of his cock—either would free up some fingers to slide into his soft, wet mouth—but then Quentin whimpers and pushes against his pinned hands like he _loves it,_ loves being held hard against the door and kissed and touched... oh, it feels like it would be a shame to stop.

“Spread your legs a little,” he commands as he pulls away from his mouth. Quentin is breathing hard and gasping as Eliot slowly strokes him, but he does as he’s told. Eliot lets go of Quentin’s cock to press his jeans and boxers down, tight around his thighs. He pulls back a little to look at him, his hand still holding Quentin’s wrists hard against the door over his head; _god, fuck, he’s gorgeous._ Quentin is naked down to his thighs, spread and trapped in his jeans. His lovely cock is flushed and very hard, wet at the tip, balls pulled up tight to his body and muscles tense and his mouth... open. Waiting. _Asking._ Jesus _fuck,_ the rush of power that Eliot feels is incredible. He’s going to be worthy of Quentin’s trust, he’s going to take _such good care of him._

“Look at you, baby,” he says, as he rubs his hand over Quentin’s body, from his thighs up to his jaw. “So pretty. You need it, I can tell.” Quentin nods slightly, and Eliot pets over the swell of his lower lip with two fingertips, then dips them gently into Quentin’s mouth. Quentin closes his lips around Eliot’s fingers, resting on his soft, wet tongue, and sucks—pulls them slowly into the back of his mouth, rolls them across his tongue. Moans, deep in his throat. “There you go, Q,” Eliot tells him, “get my fingers nice and wet.” After a minute or so he whispers in his ear, “I’m gonna take these back, now,” then slowly slides his fingers from Quentin’s mouth. He reaches down to glide his fingertips up the insides of Quentin’s thighs, against the soft, sensitive skin there, and press over his perineum before taking him in hand again and swiping his thumb over the wetness at waiting at the tip of his cock. “Do you need to be kissed, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

Eliot kisses Quentin, deep and slow, as he pins him to the door and strokes him. Quentin is wet enough, leaking enough, that he’s fairly slick... heavy and hot in Eliot’s hand. It’s _so_ erotic, _god,_ he wants him, wants this... and controlling himself, drawing it out, making it _good_ for Quentin as he holds him there, stretched out and pinned to the door, feels Quentin’s knees buckle as he moans into Eliot’s mouth... god, it’s so good, so hot and so right and feels like such a fucking privilege. 

Eliot reads Quentin’s breath and his moans and the strain of his body. He kisses his neck and his chest and his nipples and then returns to his mouth, holding him tight to the door and slowly bringing him off with his hand wrapped, large and warm, around his beautiful, straining cock. God, he’s just... he’s just perfect, all stretched out, muscles taut... Quentin’s breath catches in his chest and then he’s coming over Eliot’s hand, gasping with his head tipped back against the door. Eliot holds him up and works him through it; he kisses Quentin as he’s beginning to catch his breath and he _loves him._

“Eliot can I...” Quentin huffs a small laugh at himself and shakes his head, grinning. “Can I suck your cock? Please?”

Eliot’s cock is almost painfully hard, still inside his trousers. “Of course you can, sweetheart. Here, I’m going to let you down. Hold on to me.” 

Eliot carefully lets up the pressure on Quentin’s wrists, stooping to take some of Quentin’s weight with an arm around his waist. He steers him over to the bed and sets him down on the edge, thinking to let him rest, to get him some water, but Quentin tugs on Eliot’s wrist, pulling him down to sit beside him, then immediately slides to his knees on the floor between Eliot’s thighs. 

“I want this,” Quentin gasps, already through Eliot’s belt, fingertips on his waistband, “so much.” His cheeks are flushed and his lips are red from kissing, and he’s still breathing hard, looking a little wild, a little desperate. Fuck, Quentin’s pants are still around his thighs. “I want you to tell me to take it.” 

Jesus _fucking..._ holy... okay. Okay, Eliot can do that. He’ll figure it out.

The vampire nonsense went out the window a long time ago, and here Eliot is— a man who is deeply, tenderly in love with the very sweet, scorchingly hot man kneeling between his thighs, waiting to be _told_ to suck his cock. 

“Okay gorgeous, “ he says gently, cupping the side of Quentin’s face. “Get me out of my pants.”

Quentin does, opening Eliot’s fly reverently, even in his half-frantic state. He carefully frees Eliot’s cock from his silk boxers and slacks, rucking them down enough to be out of the way, and takes it in his hand. Eliot is so hard that he’s almost completely out of his foreskin. He gasps at the relief, the feeling of the cool air on his glans, and the heat and strength of Quentin’s hand.

“That’s right, Q,” he continues. “Now put me in your mouth. Wrap those beautiful lips around my cock. Take it, baby. I know you can do it. You’re so good to me.”

Quentin smiles and then just... groans, so openly, as he takes Eliot in his mouth. It’s just... obscenely erotic, Eliot thinks, as he he tries to catch his breath, the shock of the wet heat of Quentin’s mouth finally giving way to rolling waves of pleasure. He leans back slightly, supporting himself on his hands. Fuck... the _sight_ of him, on his knees, moaning a little bit and squirming as he eagerly sucks Eliot’s cock... god it is, just, wildly, incredibly sexy. Eliot has never been a particularly _domineering_ dom, but this... _Quentin..._ who asked nicely—begged, even, a little—and then put _himself_ on his knees? _Jesus._ Whatever he wants, whatever it is... it’s his. 

“Q,” he says, almost laughing as he tries to gather his breath and his wits. Quentin is using _technique,_ exercising restraint, a determined little furrow in his brow even though his energy is still frantic and eager. “Quentin. You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. And that’s... ahh... that’s so good.” Remembering that Quentin wanted to be _told_ to suck his cock _,_ he continues, “There you go, just like that, baby. Take me in... take me in deeper.”

Quentin rises up higher on his knees and _does,_ moving his hands to Eliot’s hips, and Eliot honestly loses the thread from there, caught up in the incredible sensations that Quentin's pulling from his body. Eventually he manages to discern, from Quentin’s noises and frantic little nods when gently asked, his responding moans, that he wants Eliot to finish while holding his head against his hips, fucking carefully up into his throat, and it’s... god. It’s so much... Eliot doesn’t know how he doesn’t just pass out from the intensity, but he doesn’t. He holds Quentin carefully in the cradle of his hips, pleasure rolling through him and finally cresting, high and bright and powerful, and comes down his throat. 

“Oh my god,” Eliot gasps, grinning. Quentin has finally, carefully, pulled away, and is smiling at him, his hair wild and his lips swollen and red. “You’re amazing.” Eliot leans up a bit more to look down over Quentin’s mostly-naked body, kneeling at the end of the bed. He’s gotten hard again, sucking Eliot’s cock—Quentin’s short refractory period is a thing of beauty—and he’s breathing deep in his chest, absolutely gorgeous and just... the sweetest thing Eliot’s ever seen.

“Let me take care of you?” 

“Yeah, okay.” He’s still grinning. “Kiss me and... your hands?” 

Eliot does exactly that. He pulls Quentin up the bed and gets him out of his jeans, wraps him up under the blanket and kisses him sweetly and takes him back in his hands and makes him come again, slow and sweet like honey. Oh, he’s in love. He’s so in love.

“Q,” Eliot says, a little bit later as he holds him against his chest, bundled up under the African bedspread and leaning against the headboard of his bed. “I love you.” 

Quentin snuggles back against him. “I love _you,_ El.”

“Honestly I didn’t know I could feel this way,” he admits, through a lapping wave of _warm_ and _safe_ and _ours._ “I thought I was in love all those years ago, at nineteen, but it wasn’t like this.”

“When did you know?” Quentin asks, “How you felt?”

“Last Sunday.” He tightens his arms a little around Quentin’s ribcage. “In the rainstorm. It’s been a week.” 

“Mmmm.” Quentin is quiet for a minute, then, “Ted was right.”

Eliot laughs, mock-affronted. “You talked to Ted about it?”

“Oh, hell no. Ted talked to _me_ about it. He’s a very helpful, you know, pain in the ass.”

Eliot tips his head forward to kiss the back of Quentin’s ear. Now he’s curious. “What about you? When did you know?”

“It was Thursday night,” Quentin says, softly. “When I was falling asleep. That’s when I knew I was in love with you.” 

_Oh,_ well that’s... it makes a lump form in Eliot’s throat, thinking about the timing, and about how Quentin had kissed him goodbye.

“I walked home in the rain that morning,” Eliot finally tells him, his voice quiet. “In the dark, thinking about you. The whole walk... about how I loved you, and what you were going through. I decided I shouldn’t burden you with my feelings.” 

“Oh darling,” Quentin squeezes Eliot’s hand where it’s wrapped around his middle, “you could never.” He twists in Eliot’s arms enough to lean sideways and back to stretch up to kiss him, gentle and very sweet, and Eliot watches the shadows cast by Quentin’s eyelashes on his cheeks as he turns away. 

“You should know, then,” he says, snuggling Quentin back into his arms, “I _do_ want to be your very-serious boyfriend, Q. I knew it before that night, and I know it now. I can wait, if you want me to, to begin courting you in earnest...”

“You want to _court me?”_ Quentin sounds sweetly incredulous.

“Shhh, I’m working on my _mental framing,_ here.” He smiles and kisses Quentin’s hair, teasing. “‘Paramour’s’ been working for me, I can carry on longer with that. But yes.”

Quentin hums and snuggles back against Eliot’s chest. The quiet stretches to a few minutes; it’s clear that he’s thinking. “I’ll... I’ll begin telling you some more about my life tonight,” Quentin finally says, “If that’s okay. I know it’s... maybe hard to ‘frame,’ that I’d be protective of you. But I am.”

Eliot’s heart does something complicated, at that. Squeezes, it feels like, and then expands, like it’s adjusting to a somewhat bigger, or deeper, kind of love. It’s only ever been Margo, who felt that way about him. However remote the possibility that Quentin’s secrets would drive him away, however absurd that seems, and even though the idea scares him... Eliot can’t help but be touched. 

“I’m sorry for making light of it, Q. It’s clearly important to you.”

“It’s okay, I understand.” Quentin stirs in Eliot’s arms, then levers himself to sit up, turning around to face him and leaning back on one hand. He looks amused, a curve to his lips and dimples making an appearance. “It would be a little funny, though, if I somehow caused ‘the downfall of a noble house.’”

“With your sexiness,” Eliot clarifies.

“Right,” Quentin laughs and looks down, embarrassed. Charming. “With my sexiness.” He reaches for Eliot’s jaw with his fingertips and guides him forward to kiss.

#

Eventually they do stop kissing and get out of bed, and Eliot is left alone with his thoughts for most of the rest of the afternoon, or large chunks of it anyway. There are brief interludes when Quentin comes into the kitchen to check in and get kissed, have a taste of what Eliot’s making... and if he minds having his very cute ass squeezed, just a little bit, he certainly doesn’t show it. Eliot puts “Kind of Blue” on the record player, caramelizes onions, and gets a pot of French onion soup simmering low on the back burner, filling the kitchen and then the rest of the house with rich, aromatic steam. He settles in at the bench-nook to work on his report. It’s grounding, as mundane as it is, after the intense emotions of the past couple of days, and he begins drafting his synopsis as both the fragrance of the soup and the colors of the house deepen around him while the afternoon draws on.

Quentin has private conversations with Ted and with his attorney, then walks around the living room in circles while talking to the nurse’s station and leaving a message for Ted’s doctor. Eliot peeks at him through the kitchen arch to watch him gesture with his hands, lovely and animated, as he talks. 

“I’ll be back soon,” Quentin tells him, a little later, raising up on his toes for a kiss by the front door, all bundled up in his raincoat and hat. He’s put on a sweater that’s so soft that Eliot’s fingers twitch with wanting to touch him in it, a burgundy v-neck that hugs him just at the right spot on his hips. But now he’s off to visit his neighbors, and Eliot kisses him sweetly, drawing it out, savoring his little gasp and huff of exasperation before Quentin rolls his eyes at himself and heads out the door.

By the time Quentin bustles back into the house, chilly and dripping, Eliot’s made an elegant little salad with homemade croutons, and saved the last two thick slices of bread to top the soup. It’s getting dark outside, with the sun low in the sky and the rain coming down, it’s constant soft drumming like a blanket around the warm comfort and safety of Quentin’s home. 

“Hi sweetheart,” Eliot smiles as he leans to look at Quentin through the kitchen arch. “Are you hungry?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Quentin hangs up his raincoat and shudders, “that smells _incredible.”_

Eliot hopes it will taste incredible, but that’s very encouraging. He kisses Quentin a tender, languid hello while the broiler heats up, threading his fingers into his silky hair and feeling the chill of the rain leave his lips. Quentin’s bowls aren’t broiler-safe, they’re fairly sure, but that’s fine; Eliot floats the lightly toasted bread on top of the soup, and tops it with pillowy mounds of shredded gruyere before setting the entire pot in the oven. When he pulls it out a few minutes later the cheese is melted and golden-brown, and he ladles the soup into the bowls at the coffee table, rather than risk moving them, and sprinkles on a few leaves of fresh thyme. 

The whole house feels warm, as they settle down in the living room for dinner, Quentin with a blanket over his legs. What could be better, really, than loving a man, spending the afternoon in bed with him, and then making them both soup? He watches Quentin’s shoulders settle, his nervous energy unspool as he smiles and closes his eyes after his first bite. 

“Oh,” he laughs, his cheeks dimpling and crinkles around his eyes, “this's some of the best I’ve had. ‘S so good.” 

Eliot’s pleased, of course, that Quentin likes it; but the way he feels right now, sitting here on the sofa with Quentin, holding their steaming bowls of homemade soup—it’s about one part pride and three parts tender fondness. 

Quentin accepts a glass of wine, this time—Eliot has the rest of a sauvignon blanc, from deglazing the onions—and even though they’re just curled up in the living room, it feels so romantic, to Eliot. _Life_ feels so romantic.

“I have some news,” Quentin says, “if you want to hear it? I know what I’m going to do with my house.”

“Oh?” Eliot feels a twinge, at that. A little bit of advance-grief. He loves this house. “Tell me?”

“Well, first off, you should know that I’m not expecting to come back here. The chances feel, just, extremely slim, that I’d want to do that. I um. I expect that Ted will still be with me, for a long time. I hope he will.”

“I hope so too,” Eliot tells him, his heart squeezing.

“Right well, and... and I don’t think this life will work for me again, after Ted’s gone.”

Oh, that’s... god, it’s a sad thought, and the mixed emotions Eliot’s having are swirling in the pit of his stomach as he chooses to let it be compassion that rises to the surface.

“I’m sorry, Q.”

Quentin takes his hand and squeezes it. The look in his eyes is sad, but also knowing and grateful.

“So do you remember how I took the extra vegetables to my neighbors, the families in the crowded flats up the road?” Eliot nods before Quentin continues. “The oldest person there is a woman named Helen, she’s in her sixties? Anyway, she’s a widow, and she and her ‘friend,’ Olive, live with her daughters and son in law and grandkids. She’s lovely, but she’s not _technically_ the head of the family, because- you know- patriarchy? And they have no privacy.”

Eliot’s following this, fascinated, beginning to guess the shape of what Quentin has in mind. “Go on?”

“So,” Quentin says, “I’ve found a way to let Helen and Olive have my house, so they can live here and use the garden to grow food, and Helen’s brother-in-law or like, any of the other men in the family won’t be able to take it or make them move? I’m gifting them what’s called a “life estate.” So basically, the house will be theirs for their lifetimes, as long as they want it.”

 _Holy shit._ “And then?” Eliot asks.

“And then it reverts back to me, and I decide what to do with it.” 

Quentin is focusing on his soup, waiting for Eliot to respond. Eliot’s a little stunned. “You’re giving your house, which you _own—_ which is wild—to a Ugandan lesbian couple, so they can live alone and grow food for their grandkids?”

“I mean, basically. I don’t technically know if they’re lesbians - they could be bisexual, or you know, whatever. But yeah, totally a couple.” Quentin smiles at him, with sweet little dimples, like this is totally normal. “They’re really cute together. I still have to work out a few details, but then I’ll have them come by later in the week. You can meet them.”

Eliot realizes that Quentin seems to have failed to grasp the aspects of his decision that are the most startling. He decides to skip over the whole home-ownership what-the-fuckness of it all in favor of focusing on the startling, casual generosity of what he’s announced he’s going to do.

“That’s... I don’t know what to say, Q. It’s a very kind choice to make. I assume they were thrilled?”

“Yeah, I think so? And they can get their grandkids involved with keeping up the garden. And honestly it could be even more productive than it has been. I need to write out some notes about how I’ve been managing it, what seems to work.” 

Eliot squeezes Quentin’s hand, between them on the sofa cushion, as they finish their dinner. He feels a little ungrounded, like he’s living in a fairytale? He focuses on feeling the floor under his feet, and the flavors of the rich cheese and broth. 

“I’m going to miss this place,” he finally admits. “Being here with you.”

The music is still playing on the record player, a low pattern of soulful, sophisticated jazz. The evening has deepened, and the soft lamplight casts everything in a warm glow. Quentin holds on to him. “Me too.”

#

By the time they’re washing up from dinner, Eliot is feeling more solid again, his feet under him as the silky suds slips through his fingers. It’s a simple, quiet process—he likes to tidy while he’s cooking, so there isn’t much to do. It feels as though a thoughtful, reflective mood is beginning to permeate the house. When he’s done, he wraps his arms around Quentin, who is drying the last dish in his snug little grey jeans and touchably soft sweater. The faint scent of his shampoo is nice, herbal and familiar. 

“Mmm here, let me just...” Quentin sets down the bowl and dishtowel on the counter by the back window and turns around in Eliot’s arms. He rests his hands flat on Eliot’s chest and looks up at him, full of warm affection and soft sincerity, then slides a hand up to curl around the back of Eliot’s neck. That is certainly his cue: Eliot tightens his arms around Quentin’s ribs and pulls him up into a kiss. 

_Oh,_ it’s sweet. The softness of Quentin’s lips, and the gentle curl of his tongue, how he’s eager, but not in a hurry... Eliot relaxes into the distinct luxury of kissing Quentin slowly in the kitchen. He remembers the first time they really kissed like this, in the front room of the guest house, before they went to the market... it was wonderful then, and it’s even more wonderful now. 

“I love you,” he whispers, his nose pressed against the side of Quentin’s after they part, bending to keep the contact. Quentin shudders in his arms and rises up on his toes to kiss him again.

“I love you, too.” 

They stay like that for a while, wrapped together in the kitchen, night having descended and only darkness visible through the back window. Eliot tucks Quentin under his chin, feels his warm breath brush his throat, and just holds him there. He wants to protect him. He wants to _keep_ him. 

“Come sit with me?” Quentin asks, and Eliot loosens his arms around him and nods. 

“Mhmm, okay.”

They settle on the sofa, with Quentin’s lap blanket. The room is cozy, small and warm and safe, deep golden ocher walls and wooden furniture, the warm light of the lamp... and Quentin, lovely and solid. He has a certain calm gravitas, in his burgundy sweater and with his wool-stockinged foot pressed against Eliot’s leg. Eliot settles back against the corner and takes his hand, and waits.

“So,” Quentin begins, his voice steady and soft. “I’m not going to start with, like, the big picture? So I won’t be able to give you a lot of specific details and context, just yet. I hope that will be, um, alright with you, for now? But I want to start sharing some things about my life that are important, that I don’t usually tell people.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Eliot tries to reassure him, setting his hand on his knee. “That’s okay with me.”

Quentin meets his eyes, takes a small breath. He smiles softly, almost apologetic. “Well to start out,” he says, “I didn’t meet Arielle in Philadelphia. I met her... after I finished medical school. I worked as a medic, overseas, during a war. That was where we met.”

“You were... in _the military?”_ Eliot can’t picture it.

“No, no,” Quentin smiles and shakes his head, like he can’t, either. “It was civilian. Volunteer. Um... I’ve worked with Doctors Without Borders some, since she’s been gone? It was kind of like that.” 

Eliot nods. This is very strange. There hasn’t been an organized effort to send American civilians to help with war-wounded in the modern era— the State Department usually tries to get citizens _out_ of areas of armed conflict. Quentin could have been in any number of places in Africa, or possibly even in the Balkans? Yet Eliot gets the impression, from Quentin’s vagueness, that he shouldn’t ask about _which_ war-zone, in _what_ part of the world, at this point. He’s fairly sure he knows _why,_ however.

“You went somewhere where people were getting wounded in a war, to help save lives, right out of medical school?” Quentin’s nods and shrugs his shoulders slightly, his expression seems to say _yep, that’s me._ Eliot swallows back some kind of retroactive protective worry. “So... how did you and Arielle meet?”

“She was a nurse. I was injured - I was fine,” he quickly adds, “but I became her patient, for a little while.”

“Romantic,” Eliot smiles.

Quentin has a far-away, nostalgic look in his eyes. “It was. So... after the conflict was over, we got married. And. And a little after that, we had a son.” 

_Oh, that’s..._ Eliot is so startled. _“Quentin..._ you had _a child? Sweetheart...”_ He leaves the statement hanging, waiting for Quentin to tell him more. 

“Yes.” Quentin says. “His name was Rupert. I know,” he chuckles softly and looks down at his lap, “that’s a weird name. But so is ‘Quentin.’ But um... he was wonderful.”

The past-tense of that statement is not lost on Eliot. He lifts his hand from Quentin’s knee and moves closer to him, and takes both of his hands in his own. “You lost him, too,” he quietly fills in.

“Yes.” 

“Q. I’m _so sorry.”_

Quentin nods. “I wish I could tell you... so much more about him. And I will, i hope, but I can’t right now? But it’s, um... having been a father? It’s as much a part of me—maybe more, actually—than being a widower. I um...” he shakes his head, like he’s sorry. Eliot can’t imagine what he would have to be sorry for. “I didn’t want this all to be about loss, and grief? I lost Arielle first, and Rupert, later. I don’t usually talk about it. But to be honest... I mean, you know about my depression. I don’t know if I would have gotten through it, if it hadn’t been for Ted.”

“Oh, _Q.”_ Eliot reaches for him, and pulls him over into his arms, arranges him against his shoulder, and breathes in deep. He’s at a loss for words, but he can do this.

Eliot just holds Quentin, for a little bit, letting it all settle. He still feels it: protective, even possessive. Maybe that’s not... maybe that’s not a feeling he should encourage—he can talk to Joy about it, later—but for now he just wants... he wants to comfort Quentin, reassure him and keep him safe. He can offer that, can try his best, and he’s grateful that Quentin seems willing to accept it, but...he wishes there were something he could do, retroactively, to protect him from the depth of his grief.

“Hey,” Quentin says softly after a couple of minutes, stirring in his arms. “I’m okay, darling. I just want you to know.”

Eliot nods, trying to absorb that. He _is_ okay, Eliot’s seen it. After a minute, he asks, “is that something you want to have again? Children?”

Quentin is quiet for several moments. “It isn’t something that I’m opposed to, in theory, although it hasn’t been part of my plans,” he finally says, in a careful-sounding voice. “I loved being a father, and I think I was good at it. But - please take this seriously and believe me? It isn’t something that I need.”

What can Eliot say to that? He holds Quentin tight. “Okay, love. Thank you for telling me.” 

“Do you, Eliot?” Quentin asks. “Do you know if you want to have children?”

He takes a deep breath, giving himself a moment to decide what to say, and relaxes on the exhale. “The honest answer is, I never have wanted that. In the future? I don’t know. Life is surprising me, right now.” 

Quentin squeezes him around his middle and lays his head on his shoulder. “It’s surprising me, too.” 

They stay like that. They just stay like that, for a while, holding one another, bundled up in the corner of Quentin’s little sofa. Eliot feels Quentin breathe, the rhythmic rise and fall of his ribs, and the heat of his body. Outside, night deepens in Kampala, and across Uganda, cool and vast, as Eliot feels the future waiting for them. For now, they’re here, and Eliot wants to protect them, protect _him,_ in this tiny home that is—for now at least and in a sense anyway—theirs.


End file.
